A Walk on the Wild Side
by sapienlover
Summary: A birthday present turns into a fight for survival. This is the team as a family-by-association, so not canon. Part 1 of 'The Redemption of Eliot Spencer' series.
1. Chapter 1

"YEEEEEEEHAAAAAAA!"

A black-clad blur shot past Eliot and disappeared over the cliff. A cackle of pure, unadulterated delight was heard, fading into the distance.

Hardison, sitting wrapped in his sleeping bag and looking beyond despondent, glanced sideways at Eliot.

"How many is it now?" he muttered.

Eliot gave one of his rare grins and added another log to the fire.

"Countin' this one? Twenty-one."

Hardison sighed.

"Don't she ever get tired? Like, slow down, even? Or … or … just _stop_?"

"Hell, she's happy," Eliot said, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. "It's like tryin' to wear out a hound dog pup. Ya just unleash her an' let her run. She'll be hungry soon, an' then she'll sleep like the dead. All wore out an' pleased as punch."

Hardison grunted.

"Damn, Eliot … why couldn't we jus' let her fling herself off the Wells Fargo Building for a night or two? Why here?" He extracted an arm from the sleeping bag around his shoulders and waved obliquely at the mountains and forest surrounding them. "I mean … _why_?" His arm drew back under the sleeping bag, making the young hacker look like a deranged tortoise.

Eliot busied himself stirring the rich and aromatic stew simmering in his aluminium camping pot. He cocked an eyebrow at Hardison.

"'Cause, m'friend, you bought her the new rig an' my part of the birthday gift was choosin' where she could try it out." Eliot's grin became slightly wolfish. "I chose _here_."

"But …" Hardison wasn't about to let it go. "But … there's nothin' here! Just … just trees … an' bugs, an' bears an' … an' _air_."

Eliot decided he must have mellowed somewhat over the years, as he wasn't even irritated with Hardison's trademark whining. But then, he thought, he was never happier than when he was up here in the high places, where he could breathe and rest and let his body and mind slow down for a while.

"Hardison … that's why I chose this place. Get some fresh air into your nerdy brain an' allow Parker to let her hair down without havin' to deal with all those people an' situations life throws at her." He took a deep breath, feeling the chill evening air fill his lungs. "Stop bitchin.' It'll do you good."

He handed a wooden spoon to Hardison.

"Here. Keep stirring. I'd better go haul her crazy ass back up that cliff."

As if on cue, he heard a yell from far below them, drifting over the edge of the cliff twenty yards away.

"ELIOOOOTTT! I'm ready!"

Hardison looked up at Eliot, shaking his head.

"You're just encouragin' her, you know that, don't you?"

Eliot snorted in amusement, and leaving Hardison to carry on muttering under his breath about how they were "gonna get _ate_ by a damn _grizzly_ an Nana won't never find out what happened to her precious boy", sauntered to a large pine belted by a sophisticated rope system, a state-of-the-art lightweight harness and tiny electronic pulley.

He peered over the cliff.

Far below him, Parker stood at the base of the smooth, vertical drop and waved at him with both arms. He could almost feel the excitement vibrating through her.

He cups his hands around his mouth and yelled.

"PARKER! GIMMEE TEN SECS, OKAY?"

And within moments he had the pulley working to ease Parker up the cliff face. Peering again over the cliff, he saw her walking easily up the smooth rock, her slight body at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

Smiling, he shook his head.

Parker was touchy to deal with most of the time, but when she was happy, she could be a joy.

 _Yeah,_ he thought. _Twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. An' there's nothin' quite like her anywhere else in this whole damn world._

Minutes later, he lifted Parker over the edge and set her on her feet, unclipping the ropes from the harness around her slim frame.

Parker studied him for a moment.

Eliot waited patiently, arms crossed.

Parker grinned.

"I'm hungry," she declared. "Wanna eat?"

And with that she launched herself at Eliot, who very nearly didn't uncross his arms in time to catch her.

Parker wrapped her arms and legs around the hitter, and Eliot felt her snuggle her face into his shoulder through his warm padded jacket. Eliot knew better than to complain about her impulsive habits, so he just hung on to her as she clung like a limpet to his sturdy frame.

"Thank you," she whispered into his collarbone. "I _love_ my cliff!"

"Well, darlin'," Eliot drawled, "I'm very glad you do. How'd the rig work out?"

Parker unwrapped herself and dropped lightly to her feet. Eliot cocked his head sideways studying the young woman. Her face was glowing with the fresh air and the excitement of finally getting to try out her birthday gift from Hardison.

"It's … it's … _outstanding_! It's … oh … like eating nineteen bars of chocolate in five minutes flat, Eliot! _Nineteen!"_

And turning, she ran at Hardison's hunched figure and pounced.

The hacker and the thief fell in a tangled heap beside the fire, Parker pinning him down, sitting on his chest. She cupped his face, even as Hardison began a blustering tirade of complaint and exasperation dotted with a number of 'godammits' and 'crazy as hells' and 'stop the damn' ticklin' Parker!'

Parker gazed into his face.

"Thank you, Hardison. My rig and my cliff are the _Best._ _Birthday present_. _EVER_."

Hardison shut up. He nodded grudgingly, waving the dripping wooden spoon vaguely towards the stew.

"Well, mamma, that's okay then. But I gotta get back to cookin' supper, a'ight?"

Parker smiled in pure delight, her elfin face lighting up with pleasure. Heaving herself off Hardison's chest, she helped him sit up as Eliot joined them, sitting down on the fallen tree they were using as part of their camp setup.

Within thirty minutes the hearty stew was ladled into tin plates along with hunks of what Eliot called 'damper,' a flour, water and baking soda bread cooked in the ashes.

Parker sniffed it suspiciously.

"It's good, Parker. Try it." Eliot used his hunk to wipe gravy from the side of his plate.

Hardison nibbled at his chunk of bread. His eyebrows shot up.

"Hey, bro', that's not bad! Not bad at all!"

Eliot nodded.

"Yeah. An ol' lady from the _Warumungu_ tribe taught me how to cook it. Pretty good, huh."

Parker took a mouthful along with a hunk of meat from the stew, and she grinned.

"Wow!" She mumbled around the chunk of damper. "'At's goo'!"

Hardison swallowed the hot stew and pursed his lips.

" _Warumungu?_ Who they? Malaysian? African?"

Eliot shook his head, his beanie keeping his long hair out of his eyes and his meal.

"Nope. Australian. Up in the Northern Territory. Spent a while there a few years back." He ate another mouthful of stew as Hardison and Parker waited for more information.

Hardison's patience wore out pretty quickly.

"Well? What were you doin' in Australia? Never knew you'd been there, El. Must've been when you were with …" Hardison suddenly realised he'd said too much as he saw Eliot's eyes turn bleak and a muscle jumped along the hitter's jaw.

Eliot let out an explosive breath. These days he was less likely to threaten to whup-ass and he was more able to speak about his past, although it was still an ordeal he would try and avoid if he could.

"Nope. Not Moreau. This was … after. I needed a place to go … heal up … get my vibes together. Figure myself out. The southern part of the territory is all desert. The _Warumungu_ took me in for a while. Good people," he added softly. "Beautiful place. An' the witchetty grubs ain't bad, either. Taste like scrambled egg." He suddenly grinned, his face lighting up mischievously. "Great big thing, like a fat caterpillar, an' you dig 'em up. Good raw or cooked. Roast 'em in the fire an' they turn yellow an' the skin's all crispy, like chicken. Mighty fine eating."

He eagerly shovelled in another mouthful of stew and bit off a large chunk of damper.

Hardison and Parker stared at him for long seconds, and then Hardison put down his plate, the food only half-eaten.

"You know somethin', Eliot? You are a very, _very_ strange person. Yep. _Strange_. What's _wrong_ with you, man? Eatin' bugs! Blech!"

Hardison lifted his plate once more, snaffled more damper, and shuffled along the big tree trunk and turned his back to Eliot.

 _One down, one to go_ , Eliot decided.

"Did I ever tell you how tasty a kangaroo tail is, Parker?"

Parker's face went from disgust to horror. She was quite fond of kangaroos, especially when she had seen a documentary about orphan kangaroo joeys at a sanctuary near Alice Springs. She was prone to a surfeit of fluffy feelings when cute orphans came into the mix.

Eliot opened his mouth to continue, thinking eating goanna might just be a suitable subject, but Parker jumped up, covered her ears, yelled "LALALALA!" very loudly and took herself – and her stew – off to sit beside Hardison.

Eliot smirked, and scraped the last of the stew onto his plate. Pissin' off Hardison and Parker sure made a man hungry.

* * *

An hour later the sun was setting.

Here in the great wilderness of Eagle Cap, Oregon, the landscape of great peaks and scattered forests of engelmann spruce, mountain hemlock and whitebark pine sprawled majestically around the three humans camped above a nameless cliff, located far from the well-hiked pathways further along the mountain range.

Eliot, Parker and Hardison sat watching the drift of red to gold to darkening purple as the sun dropped lower in the autumn sky. Nursing cups of Eliot's hot chocolate, Hardison and Parker had finally forgiven Eliot his gross food conversation, and they had to discuss what the plans were for the following four days.

A grateful client from the Bureau of Land Management had arranged for them to be flown by helicopter up into the high alpine landscape, and Eliot had planned for them to take four days to hike back down to where they had parked Lucille.

He had it all worked out. It wouldn't be a dawdle, but it wouldn't be beyond either Hardison or Parker, and the scenery was wild but breathtaking. Their route was set, they were very well equipped for the trip, and best of all, they had Eliot. He knew these mountains, and he knew how to survive in them.

And from Eliot's point of view, the lack of wi-fi and telephone service meant that there would be no earbuds, cell phones, laptops and World of Warcraft. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. They had flares, Eliot knew the safety procedures, and he had logged their route and ETA with the Ranger Service. They were all set.

"So … Eliot." Hardison took a sip of his hot chocolate. "Whatcha got planned for tomorrow?" He secretly hoped the walking would be all downhill. He didn't do mountains or uphill in any shape or form.

Eliot didn't bother bringing out the map. Without GPS, Hardison couldn't find his way out of a men's room.

"We follow the cliff along, then work our way down for a few miles to another ridge, and then we start for the Minam River."

"Oh." Parker said softly. "And … what is there to do, exactly?"

Eliot frowned.

"Well, the walkin' is pretty good. Fairly easy going. An' we might see elk, or whitetail. Or even a bighorn if we're lucky."

Parker's eyes widened.

"What has big horns?" She asked nervously.

Hardison sighed.

"It's a sheep, Parker." Honestly. She could be so … so … _odd_ , sometimes. Well, _most_ of the time, he mentally corrected himself.

Parker's jaw dropped.

"Sheep have _horns_? _BIG_ horns? Do they eat people?"

Eliot took a deep breath to rally his patience, a skill he had nurtured with regard to Parker. Especially after the horse incident.

"Yes, Parker, some sheep have horns, an' these ones are big sheep with big horns, an' no, they don't eat people. You're pretty safe from bighorn sheep."

"Promise?" she squeaked.

Eliot crossed his heart and hoped to die.

"I promise, Parker. And even if one tried to eat you – which it _won't_ – I will dutifully turn it into roast rack of mutton with gravy an' collard greens. Okay?"

Parker thought about it, and then nodded.

"Okay."

"And," Eliot added, "there should be a big tree or two about that you can climb. How does that sound? As long as you don't break bits off it or disturb a wasp's nest, you should be all right."

"Really?"

Eliot nodded. It was like dealing with a five year old with no awareness of danger and a penchant for falling off things from a great height, which was something Parker did _par excellence_.

"Yep. This is supposed to be a relaxin' break with time to look at the scenery an' touch base with the peace an' quiet."

Hardison finished his hot chocolate and checked the pan for more. Parker beat him to it. Oh well.

"'Kay, guys, I'm turnin' in. An' sleepin' in my nice, lumpy sleeping bag on the hard, lumpy ground, in the cold, an' my nose will drip an' I just _know_ I'm gonna be as stiff as a dead squirrel tomorrow morning." A thought struck him. "Squirrels. They got rabies, right?"

Eliot rested his elbows on his knees, watching the last hints of gold and red turn slowly into the blue-black of night.

"Go to bed, Hardison," he said softly. "I'll wake you first light."

Grumbling, Hardison settled down for the night, and Parker followed, burrowing deep into her cosy sleeping bag until all Eliot could see were a few blonde locks sticking out of the top.

"Eliot?"

Her voice was muffled.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Thank you. I had a great day. The _best_ day."

Eliot smiled softly.

"You're welcome."

And within minutes both Hardison and Parker were sound asleep.

Eliot sat for a little while, enjoying the silence and the sense of space and distance around him. Here he could breath. Here he felt _safe_. But tomorrow was almost upon them and he needed to sleep. And, he knew, he would sleep well and deeply.

He glanced at Hardison, snoring quietly in the glow of the fire.

"Rabies," he said to himself. "You gotta be shittin' me."

And shaking his head in amusement, he cleaned up the cups, put more wood on the fire, curled up in his sleeping bag and fell asleep gazing at the drift of countless stars above him.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

Alec Hardison opened one eye blearily. The darkness around him had faded into a faint, pink light, and the embers of the fire glowed a comforting red. It seemed safe enough to open the other eye, so he did just that.

He was warm, comfortable and feeling no pain, despite his assertion that he would be stiffer than a dead squirrel come morning. He sniffed. A rich smell wafted in the air. Yep. That was what had awoken him.

Coffee.

Slowly unzipping his sleeping bag while trying to stay quiet enough so as to not wake Parker, he wriggled out into freezing morning air. He mentally thanked the god of men's clothing for the creation of insulated Empire combinations and knitted woollen socks, and he stood up, wrapping the sleeping bag around him. He looked for Eliot.

Well, he wasn't in his sleeping bag. It was neatly rolled and tied off, and his clothes and boots were nowhere to be seen. So, Hardison deduced, Eliot must be _in_ the clothes and boots. He looked around.

Ah. There he was.

Eliot was seated on the big fallen tree, coffee in hand, watching the sunrise.

Hardison stretched, yawning, and helped himself to a cup of Eliot's excellent brew. Ambling slowly across to the tree, he sat by the hitter.

The pair of them sat in silence as the sun crept slowly over the horizon, wreathing the mists in the shallow valley below them in golden filigree traces.

Eliot showed no sign of having noticed Hardison, although the hacker was aware that Eliot knew exactly where he was.

Hardison was not a man who liked to be ignored.

"Hey, El –"

Eliot raised a finger, stopping Hardison's imminent rambling discourse.

Hardison shut up.

Eliot took a sip of coffee, and closed his eyes as the light bathed the world in a golden glow. He basked in the warmth and welcome of a beautiful day, and Hardison took the hint.

As they sat, watching the rays of the sun light the world, Hardison suddenly found himself drawn to the silence, the huge expanse of blue-and gold sky, and the shifting of shadows on the towering peaks around them. The light and dark was constantly moving, ever changing, and utterly beautiful. It was, quite simply, magnificent.

 _Maybe this trip won't be that bad_ , he thought.

But a gruff, soft voice broke his reverie.

"The Navajo welcome the dawn with a special chant and a breath of corn pollen. It means they're balanced an' in harmony with their world. I kinda like that."

Hardison looked at Eliot – _really_ looked at him. Never, he realised with a jolt, in all of the years he had known Eliot, had he ever seen him completely at peace. And he suddenly felt that Eliot deserved that peace more than anyone he knew.

"Hey," said a little voice behind him.

Hardison glanced sideways to see Parker, bundled in her own sleeping bag and wearing a heavy hoodie. She insinuated herself between Hardison and Eliot.

"Watcha doin'?" she whispered.

"Shhh! We're bein' in harmony." Hardison muttered.

Parker shrugged.

"Oh. Okay."

She snuggled between the two men she regarded as brothers and looked at the world spread before them.

"Pretty," she said under her breath.

"Yeah," said Hardison. "It sure is."

Eliot didn't say anything. He was, Hardison guessed, still absorbing his 'peacefulness' thing.

So they sat, quietly and peacefully and in harmony with life for a whole six minutes.

Until Parker poked Eliot in the ribs.

"Hungry," she said loudly.

Eliot sighed.

* * *

After a breakfast of fried bacon with what was left of the damper, the trio packed up, tidied the campsite and set off, leaving virtually no trace of their presence other than what was left of the ashes of the fire and flattened earth from the imprint of their sleeping places.

They hiked in line across the top of the cliff, and within the hour the animal trail Eliot was following dipped downwards towards a distant ridge. Eliot led, moving easily and obviously in no hurry.

Parker followed, cheerfully tallying the various critters they saw along the way. Counting made her happy. Eliot had pointed out two bald eagles, a small group of three whitetail hinds, thirteen squirrels (which made Hardison a tad jumpy and which Eliot filed away for future reference), and two bighorn rams battering the hell out of each other on a distant crag. The crack of their horns could be heard eerily in the clear, still mountain air. Parker soon lost her nervousness and was mesmerised by the power and majesty of the big sheep.

Hardison brought up the rear, talking to himself.

"Oh … oh man, look at _that_. Some creepy-lookin' mushroom or toadstool or somethin' … probably lethal … jeez … oh _god_ … bear poop I bet … ( _scrape-scrape_ ) … _sonofa_ \- you could use that stuff to glue - oh shit … what the _frick_ is _that_?" and so it went, until about mid-day Eliot called a halt.

They had stopped at the edge of the lower ridge, and Eliot studied the lie of the land.

He scowled.

" _Damn_."

The route he had planned to take along the edge of the ridge was gone in a sprawl of rubble and scree rock.

"What's wrong?" Hardison asked.

Eliot snorted in disgust.

"Landslide. Probably came down in the spring when the ice melted. Don't matter," he added, "we'll just head up thataway an' catch up with the track further along. Only put a couple of hours on the trip." He shrugged. "S'okay."

Hardison grimaced.

"You mean we haveta go _up_?"

Parker did a little arm-wavy thing.

"Up's fine. I like going up. Besides," she grinned, "there's some big trees over there." She followed Eliot's gaze to their left, noting a slope with a small, high clearing amid the great trees reaching heavenward. Her eyes narrowed in that cat-like way which meant she was happy. "Gonna climb one."

Eliot shifted the heavy rucksack on his back, setting himself for the hike up a steep incline towards the clearing.

"C'mon – the sooner we move the sooner we can rest up for an hour in that clear bit up there. Got coffee in a flask an' some rations for a bite to eat."

And without waiting for Parker and Hardison, he headed off.

Parker, ever the bottomless pit when it came to food, grinned. She caught Hardison's hand and pulled.

"C'mon, Hardison! If we're lucky we might see some more squirrels!"

Hardison, unable to resist the pull of her hand, trudged on behind her, grumbling.

"Squirrels, man … damn hairy little rats … probably foamin' at the mouth already … attack you in packs … sheesh … an' we wasn't supposed to be doin' any _up_!"

* * *

Going 'up' turned out to be not quite the hardship Hardison had expected, and they reached the edge of the clearing within the hour.

Eliot brought them to a halt by a small stand of whitebark pine. Parker and Hardison wandered to a stop beside him, but Eliot didn't seem to be inclined to keep moving.

Parker noticed the thoughtful frown on his face. Something was bothering him.

"Eliot?"

"Wassup, bro'?" Hardison had also noticed the sudden tensing of Eliot's shoulders.

"Somethin's not right here," Eliot muttered, more to himself than to the others. He slid the rucksack from his shoulders and hunkered down, studying the ground before him. "Not an animal trail … " his eyes followed the almost imperceptible track through the clearing. He squinted. _There_. Something dark in amongst the trees on the other side of the clearing. Something which didn't look as though it quite fit in with its surroundings, whatever it was.

Eliot thought for a moment, and then waved a hand at Parker and Hardison.

"Stay here. I'm gonna check this out."

"Wait a minute, Eliot," Hardison said, "If you're gonna walk across that open space all on your lonesome, you're crazy. We're comin' with – or at least walk _around_ the damn clearing." He paused a moment, worried. "What if it's a sniper. Or … or a crazy dude channelin' some 'Deliverance' kinda shit or –"

Eliot had no time for this.

"Dammit, Hardison!" He growled, and then his voice softened a little. "There ain't been any human activity up here in a long time. It's just … I got a feelin' somethin's a bit … I dunno … _hinky_. Okay? Just … just stay here for a minute. Soon as I check it out I'll let you know it's safe an' we can relax."

Parker put her hand on Hardison's arm.

"He's right, you know – we'll wait here a few minutes and then we can have something to eat." She grinned suddenly. "I'm starving!"

Eliot broke into a tiny smile, which was really no more than a twitch at the side of his mouth.

"Good girl. I'll give you a wave when it's all clear."

Parker nodded. But she couldn't stop a tiny frown from impinging on her grin.

"Be careful, Eliot."

The hitter nodded, drew his knife from its sheath at his belt, waggled the blade at Hardison just to irritate him, and set off over the soft meadow grass towards the dark shape among the trees.

* * *

It turned out to be a cave. A low, broad cave set into the side of a small crag behind the clearing, and it was this shaded backdrop that would have rendered the cave almost invisible if a couple of trees had not fallen in front of it.

But what made Eliot's eyebrows raise was the well-camouflaged doorway and its frame built into the cave entrance. Set back a little from the rim of the cave, the resulting shadows would have made the doorway almost invisible.

Now, however, it was semi-derelict. The frame and door had partially collapsed under the weight of bushes and saplings. It was obvious no-one had lived here for a long time.

Eliot signalled for his two compatriots to join him. As Hardison and Parker made their way across the clearing, Eliot picked his way across what would have been a tiny cleared space in front of the door, but now was littered with the remains of a small, roughly-made chair and a couple of heavy wood chopping blocks. He could just make out the rusted head of an axe leaning against one of them, the haft having long ago disintegrated.

He was joined at that moment by Hardison, who looked at the cave and its remains of human occupation with just a little bit of trepidation. Parker, having realised there was no danger, was far more interested in finding a decent tree to climb and was busy inspecting a couple on the edge of the clearing.

"Who do you think lived here?" Hardison whispered.

Eliot shook his head.

"No idea. Whoever they were, they're long gone. No-one's been here for years."

Hardison gazed at the ruins of what had obviously been someone's home, despite the remoteness.

"Creepy much. Why live up here?"

Eliot shrugged.

"Someone who likes being on their own. I can get that," he added with a slight smile.

Hardison's face had that ' _Are you screwin' with me?"_ look on it.

" _Really?_ " he said.

Eliot nodded.

"Works for me," he rumbled.

Hardison sniffed.

"You're just a crazy man who thinks livin' in a cave on a mountain is the height of social aspiration. An' you keep sayin' there's somethin' wrong with Parker." He thought for a second. "Well, there _is_ somethin' wrong with Parker, but –"

He was interrupted in mid-monologue by a soft shriek from Parker.

She was standing by a large fallen tree at the edge of the clearing a hundred yards or so from the cave.

By the time Eliot and Hardison reached her, she was staring down at an object lying beside the tree. Something bone-white and shining among the undergrowth. She looked up at Eliot, eyes wide.

"Is that –"

"Yeah," Eliot said. "It's the owner of the cave."

* * *

"The tree must've fallen on him," Eliot surmised as the three of them gently worked soil and vegetation away from the skull and the scattering of bones lying beside the fallen trunk.

He was sifting his way through the soil around the base of the skull and the few neck vertebrae that he could see.

"You lookin' for dog tags?" Hardison asked.

Eliot nodded.

"You think he was a soldier?" said Parker, gently extracting a clavicle bone.

"Probably a Vietnam vet," Eliot replied. "A lot of 'em ended up headin' for the hills. They had all sorts of problems – mostly they were just screwed up by the whole experience." He shook his head sadly. "Agent Orange … PTSD … the government either denied any problems or didn't understand what the hell these guys went through. There are still some livin' in woods and in the wilderness areas – "

He grunted in satisfaction as his fingers wrapped around a small chain embedded in the soft earth. Pulling gingerly, he eased out a set of metal dog tags.

Hardison and Parker crowded around as Eliot wiped away the dirt and read the letters stamped in the soft metal. His voice when it came was full of sadness.

"Preston, James R. USMC." He murmured.

What's USMC?" Parker asked.

Eliot hesitated before he answered.

"This soldier is a Marine. Probably from the time of the TET offensive."

Hardison was instantly curious.

"How can you tell?"

Eliot ran a finger around the edge of one of the tags.

"The service number comes before the blood type, and the letter here," he indicated an 'M' following the letters USMC, "indicates his gas mask size. It's very distinctive," he added.

Hardison's face was expressionless.

"Well, of course it is. Seriously, Eliot? _Seriously?"_

Parker reached forward and touched the dog tags in Eliot's hand.

"We have to bury him, guys. It's not right for him to be like this. Can we do that? Would that be okay?"

Hardison nodded, looking at the expression on Eliot's face. His sense of grief was almost palpable.

"Yeah, babe. We'll make sure he's cared for. How d'you want to do this, Eliot?"

Eliot took a deep breath and swallowed.

"Up by his home. Let's take him to the place that made his life a little easier to tolerate."

"Sounds right." Hardison looked down at the small, pitiful pile of bones. "We should take his tags. Maybe he's got family somewhere."

"I'll take care of it," Eliot said. "If there's anyone waitin' on him, I'll make sure they know where he is an' what happened to him. He deserves that, an' so does his family."

He got to his feet, slipped the tags into his jacket pocket and turned towards the cave that was James Preston's final home.

He took a deep breath as if to steady himself.

"Let's go see if we can find a shovel," he said.

* * *

"Hardison, gather up any bones you can find an' bring 'em up to the cave. Parker an' I will go find somethin' to dig a hole."

For once Hardison didn't complain. He searched through his rucksack and found the soft linen cloth Eliot had used to wrap the damper. It was ideal. As he began to gently place the last remains of James Preston into the cloth, he watched Parker and Eliot head back to the cave.

Eliot studied the layout of the site. It was pitifully small, and he doubted they would find any heavy duty shovels here, but as long as they could dig a shallow hole for the bones, anything would do.

"You go inside an' see what you can find, Parker. I'll have a look over there." He indicated an overgrown area that looked as though it had been used as a simple form of storage. "Holler if you find something."

Parker nodded.

"Anything we can dig a hole with, right? Not just a shovel?"

Eliot smiled. Sometimes Parker struggled with even the most rudimentary lateral thinking.

"Yeah. Anythin' will do."

"Right. Gotcha!" she said, giving Eliot a thumbs-up.

Eliot watched as she headed for the entrance. The door was a crumpled mess, so access wasn't a problem. Parker muttered to herself as she tripped on a small branch, but she managed to right herself and step into the doorway.

Eliot was about to head into the tangled undergrowth when he heard something. A soft, almost imperceptible _snick_.

His eyes widened.

With a wild, desperate leap, he lunged at Parker.

" _PARKER! DOWN!"_ he roared.

Parker didn't even have a second to react before a solid body crashed into her, sending her sprawling.

In that moment she heard a strange _WHOP!_ and then she hit the ground hard, driving the breath from her lungs.

She could have sworn she heard Eliot give a hard, angry gasp, and then something crashed down beside her and she simultaneously felt a heavy disturbance in the air above. Then came silence followed by the crack of rotten wood. The odour of decay and mould filled the air.

" _SonofaBITCH!_ " Eliot rasped. Then Parker heard him utter a stream of obscenities even she hadn't heard before.

She heaved herself up to sit on the loamy ground, and spotted a wooden frame suspended in the doorway, now hanging broken and swinging loosely in the dark space.

She gasped.

Embedded in most of the struts were spikes attached to short hafts. To her horror she noticed two were missing.

 _Eliot_. _Oh God, Eliot!_

He was lying with his back to her, and he was on his side, curled into himself, swearing loudly, thoroughly and decisively.

And from the back of his shoulder protruded the unmistakeable shape of a metal spike.

To be continued ...


	3. Chapter 3

"ELIOT!" Parker yelled even as she scrambled to her knees and reached out for the fallen man.

"Don' … don't touch me!" Eliot rasped as Parker leaned over him, frantically trying to figure out what to do and how to help.

"But –" Parker wanted to do something … _anything_ … to stop this sudden nightmare … the blood soaking alarmingly through Eliot's jacket and the agony written in his clenched jaw and his blue-on-blue eyes.

"No … no buts, Parker." Eliot looked at her sideways, squinting up at her. "Gimmee … gimmee a minute here …"

"PARKER! ELIOT! YOU GUYS ALL RIGHT?"

Hardison appeared running up the slope, almost stumbling in his haste to find out what all the yelling had been about. His eyes widened in shock as he spotted Eliot sprawled on the ground, Parker crouched beside him.

"Oh … shit," he gasped, slowing for a moment. "Oh _Jesus_ ," he added, as he saw the several inches of metal spike sticking out of Eliot's shoulder.

He slid down onto his knees beside his friends, and Eliot turned his head slightly, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to control the pain.

"Got … got a bit of a … a … situation here," he grated, holding his left arm tight against his side with his right hand.

Parker looked up at Hardison with wide, fearful eyes.

"My fault," she whispered. "My fault!"

"Nah," Eliot said tightly. "Jus' … jus' an ol' boobytrap. Shoulda … shoulda thought it through beforehand –"

"Stop!" Hardison mentally shook himself and his ever-active mind began to sort through the panic and shock, and practicality took hold. "We can't waste time yappin', Eliot. We gotta figure out how bad this, get this damn pointy thing outta you and stop the bleeding, okay? Parker?" He looked at her, his wide eyes echoing her fear. "Go get Eliot's rucksack an' dig out the Big Damn Medikit."

Parker nodded, glad to be doing something.

"He won't let us touch him, Alec. We have to help – he can't … he can't do this on his own."

And before Hardison could answer, she was gone, back to the fallen tree where James Preston, US Marine, had lost his life and where Eliot had left his rucksack.

Hardison wiped a big hand over his face, gulped, took a deep breath and seized the day.

"Eliot? I gotta look."

Eliot winced as a spasm of pain hit him.

"You gonna faint?"

"You'll be the first to know." Hardison already felt queasy. Blood was seriously not his thing.

"Well … if you do, don't … _jeez_ … don't you frikkin' _fall_ on me." Eliot whispered through clenched teeth.

Hardison ignored him, and moved to unzip Eliot's heavy jacket. The area around his side was sodden with blood, although there was surprisingly little around the front and back wounds in his shoulder.

Working his way around Eliot's supporting right arm, he managed to ease the zip down and gently tried to pull the left side of the jacket away so he could better see the damage.

"Eliot, you gotta let go, man. I can't do this with your arm in the way."

He prayed Eliot wouldn't sense how much his hands were shaking.

Eliot grimaced, grunted with pain and peered at Hardison with one eye open.

"You … you stop shakin' an' … an' I'll trust you enough to let you do this …"

 _Damn_.

The young hacker took a couple of deep breaths to try and calm himself, and he wiped his sleeve across his face.

Eliot opened his other eye and glared at Hardison.

"Dammit, Hardison – don't … don't you dare puke!"

Hardison felt his stomach rebel, but he quashed the sensation as best he could, and fixed Eliot with - he _hoped_ \- a suitably steely glare.

"Eliot. Shut up an' just _move your damn arm!"_

Allowing himself a further second or two of glaring to make sure Hardison understood it was he, Eliot Spencer, who was allowing this to happen and not because Hardison ordered him, Eliot inhaled as deeply as he could without screaming, and slowly relaxed his grip on his left arm. The sudden rush of pain nearly knocked him unconscious.

Hardison, dismayed at his friend's ashen complexion and gasp of agony, caught hold of Eliot's hand to steady him.

"Breathe, Eliot … it's okay … yell if you need to, m'man …"

"Don't … don't do yelling …" Eliot murmured. "Get on with it an' … an' stop holding my _damn hand_."

The man was incorrigible. Shaking his head, Hardison let go of Eliot's bloodstained hand and eased the jacket aside finally see the damage.

"Aw _hell_ ," he said.

While the shoulder wound was compromised by the slender spike and wooden shaft sticking out of the holes in the flesh and pinning the material, lower down on Eliot's side was the source of the blood flow.

Through the material of Eliot's plaid shirt and undershirt he could see a long, deep gouge which ran along the hitter's ribcage. It was bleeding profusely, and he really needed to do something about that right _now_.

"PARKER!"

"Here!" came a voice right beside his ear.

Hardison almost jumped out of his skin. He had been so focused on Eliot he hadn't noticed the little thief drop down beside him and place a large medical pack on the ground.

Eliot gave a hitching chuckle.

"Damn, but … but she can creep up on ya," he growled weakly.

"Hey, Sparky," Parker whispered.

She placed the back of her hand against Eliot's face, and then tucked back a wisp of long hair behind his ear. He felt clammy, she thought.

Hardison opened the pack, found a pair of nitrile gloves and putting them on, unfolded a large field dressing. Steeling himself, he tugged up Eliot's shirt, pulled his undershirt out of his pants and pressed the pad hard against the ugly, bleeding furrow along Eliot's ribs.

He saw Eliot flinch, but the man never uttered a sound.

Parker by this time had also slipped on a pair of gloves, and awaited Hardison's next move. She knew they had to keep out of each other's way.

"Here," Hardison said. "Keep pressing. I'm gonna have a look at that shoulder wound."

Parker leaned firmly against the wound, keeping the pressure up so blood-loss didn't spiral Eliot into shock. Heaven help them if it did, she knew. Eliot would die in this place … a place she realised he loved and treasured as a safe haven for him to heal.

She held back a tiny sob, and managed to lean her face against Hardison's shoulder to wipe away a tear.

Hardison, even as he began to figure out how to get at the shoulder wound and find a way to treat it, kissed the top of Parker's head.

"We'll figure it out, girl, I promise," he whispered.

Parker smiled a wobbly smile.

"Yeah. I know. I'll look after this … I'll get it patched up. Eliot," she continued, "I can't stitch it. It's just one long groove and there's nothing to stitch. I'll just have to stop the bleeding and bandage it up, all right?"

Eliot, listening carefully, was finding it increasingly difficult to focus. Black spots were dancing at the corners of his vision, and he was beginning to have to fight to stay conscious. He nodded quietly.

"Hardison … just pull the jacket over … over the spike."

Hardison wasn't sure about that one.

"I was gonna cut the jacket off – it's gonna hurt bad, Eliot, tryin' to take it off any other way –"

"Don't cut it," Eliot hissed. "'m gonna need it for warmth. Keep me from goin' into shock. Just …" He paused for a moment to let the annoying spots in his vision recede a little as blackness began to encroach on his consciousness. "… pull the goddam jacket over the spike, will ya?"

Hardison didn't reply.

Eliot lay there, prone and bleeding and hurt. His breath was coming in short pants as Parker kept up the pressure on the gouge in his side, and he was beginning to shiver. They were in deep, _deep_ shit.

Parker eased off on the wound in his side.

"The bleeding's slowing up. Thank god Sparky's got proper blood. It clots _really_ well!"

She managed to tease the bandage under Eliot's ribcage and tied off the absorbent pad, although tying it made him flinch and he couldn't contain a moan of pain.

"Sorry!" she whispered. She patted Eliot's head affectionately, and he imperceptibly relaxed into her touch.

Hardison had done his thinking.

"El, you gotta sit up. We'll hold you, so you won't have to do much, but I gotta have a way to work with your jacket and that spike you got in you. D'you think you can take it? It'll hurt like all sorts of hell, but it's the only way. I can't do anythin' with you lyin' down like this."

Eliot bared his teeth in a feral grin.

" _No shit Sherlock_ ," he ground out. "Yeah, I … I can take it. I'll be fine."

"Good." Hardison looked around him. A large pine stood a yard or so away, its trunk strong and straight. "Eliot, we're gonna try for that tree, give you somethin' to lean against. You ready?"

Eliot grinned through the pain.

"Always."

Hardison, despite himself, snorted in amusement.

"Yeah," he said, "ain't that the truth. C'mon man, let's get you moved. Parker, I'm gonna try an' get Eliot upright for a minute, an' then we can maybe shift him backwards to the tree. Can you support him from behind if I lift him?"

Parker had already thought this through and shuffled on her knees to sit beside Eliot's hips, arms akimbo, ready to prop him up as Hardison lifted him. She knew she would have to be careful not to touch the spike or jar the shoulder wound – plus she didn't want to get herself stuck by the slim weapon.

"Ready," she said. "I'll hold you Eliot, don't worry. I can take it."

And even through the fog of pain, Eliot knew she would be there to lean on. Little Parker, the young woman he thought of as the baby sister he never had. The one he would protect with every inch of his being.

The next few minutes were agonising.

Eliot Spencer wasn't a big man. He was a bare five-ten, of average height, but he was solid muscle and bone and no lightweight. Hardison muttered under his breath, working it out as he went, supporting Eliot's head and then grasping his uninjured shoulder, using the heavy jacket as a way of gently manhandling Eliot into a sitting position. Trying not to jar Eliot's wounded side was a futile exercise, and as Parker carefully wound her arms around him, pulling him back into her chest, Eliot couldn't stop a deep moan of pain.

"Take your time, El … s'okay … we gotcha …"

And even as he said the words Hardison was surprised to see Eliot's right hand reach out to him, unsteady and bloodstained. He grasped it tight, feeling the trembling in his friend's stocky frame.

Eliot turned his face into Parker's shoulder trying to get the vicious pain under control. He felt Parker's arms around him, her voice in his ear, murmuring soft words of comfort, and Hardison's grasp of his good hand was oddly welcome. He had been alone for most of his life. And now here he was, with _friends_. Just how the hell had _that_ happened? Eliot Spencer didn't have friends, let alone a family that cared for him. It felt weird. But it also felt … _nice_.

Hardison interrupted his thoughts.

"Ready for the next bit?"

Eliot grimaced.

" _No_."

"Good," Hardison couldn't help but be amused at the sass in Eliot's voice. "Feel free to help, brother. You're heavier than you look. Too much gourmet food."

"You … you sayin' I'm _fat_?" Eliot muttered into Parker's shoulder.

Hardison shrugged as he shifted his grip from Eliot's hand to under his arm, his other hand grasping Eliot's belt.

"Jus' y'know, pointin' out the obvious …"

Parker looked at Hardison, a grin twitching her lips even as she held Eliot close to her heart.

"I am _so_ gonna … gonna whup your geeky ass when we get home, Hardison …"

"Sure y'are," Hardison countered, and nodding to Parker he heaved Eliot as carefully as he could towards the tree, Parker taking her cue and counter-balancing the hitter so he didn't fall.

Eliot yelled, a bawl of anger and agony even his phenomenal control couldn't suppress. But even as the buzzing in his ears faded along with the blackness threatening to drop him into oblivion, he felt Parker's small frame be replaced by the rough solidity of a tree trunk against his back.

"Eliot? Eliot, you in there? You still with us?"

Hardison's voice came from a distance, dampened by the blood throbbing through Eliot's veins, making his head swim.

"Y – yeah … I'm good …" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

He felt Parker's gentle fingers check his side for bleeding, and then a canteen was pressed to his lips.

"Drink."

Parker nodded to herself as Eliot, eyes still closed, allowed her to trickle the lukewarm water from the metal canteen into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, enjoying the sensation of the liquid over his raw throat.

"That better?" she asked quietly.

Eliot nodded.

"Yeah. Much."

Hardison had been thinking through the next bit. It was going to be _awful_.

"Just do it," Eliot rasped.

"Let me," Parker said suddenly.

Hardison blinked.

"You?"

Parker nodded, a note of irritation in her voice.

" _Yes,_ me. I'm not strong enough to hold Eliot still. But I can pull that thing out. I have my grip gloves. No slippage, and I can be quick."

Parker looked at Hardison, her gaze steady and unwavering.

Hardison looked at Eliot, who nodded.

"Works for me," he gasped.

"Okay then. We do that." Hardison inhaled and then breathed out slowly. "Let's take your jacket off, an' then we can get that frikkin' spike out of you."

This time it was easier to try and remove the jacket. With a little pulling and tugging, Hardison worked Eliot's good arm out of its sleeve, and then with Parker sitting astride Eliot's lap and pulling him to her, Hardison managed to work the jacket over the spike, and then down his arm to allow the front of the jacket to be eased over the three inches of wooden shaft sticking out of Eliot's shoulder just under his collarbone. Eliot just bared his teeth and bore it all stoically.

All three of them needed long minutes to recover from the stress.

Parker shuffled off Eliot's legs and rummaged in his rucksack, pulling out another thick, warm shirt and undershirt. Holding them up for Eliot to see, she gestured at his bloodstained clothing.

"I'm gonna cut those off. Any objections?"

The intense expression on her face countered any of Eliot's concerns about her destroying his clothes. He shook his head.

"Go ahead. But … but you owe me a … a new shirt," he growled, wincing as she set to with a pair of scissors from the medikit.

After adding a new bandage over the wound in Eliot's side to reinforce the pressure, they were ready.

Parker laid out bandages and pads, saline solution and a topical antiseptic beside her on a small towel, and then she slipped on her grip gloves, usually used for hanging onto shiny stuff she didn't want to drop.

Hardison realised Parker had been right to demand she deal with the spike – his hands were far too big to get a grip on the exposed metal, and only Parker's delicate but strong grip would be able to have any chance of removing it from Eliot's shoulder.

He looked at Eliot. The wooden shaft protruding from the flesh high on the broad chest was almost obscene, and he felt his gorge rise, but he firmly tamped it down. Now was _not_ the time to throw up.

"C'mon, Eliot … gotta get set. Lean forward … that's it … Just hold onto me. Yell if you gotta. Nobody else here but us, an' we won't tell. Promise."

The lightness in his voice belied the fear he had for Eliot. Despite the almost constant bickering that had gone on between the two of them for the past six years, he regarded Eliot as his best and closest friend. His pain-in-the-ass big brother who teased the crap out of him, taunted him to do better, insulted his eating choices and protected him with everything Eliot had and more. He couldn't … _wouldn't_ … lose him. He, Alec Hardison, simply wouldn't allow it.

He set his mind to the task ahead of him. He held Eliot tight against his chest.

"Parker?"

She nodded, grasped the rounded metal spike carefully, braced herself by placing her left hand on Eliot's shoulder, and began to pull.

Eliot jerked. Hardison felt more than heard Eliot's grunt of agony, the hitter's face turned to Hardison's shoulder. He tightened his grip and hung on.

Parker felt perspiration trickle down her face … or was it tears? But she knew she had to remove the spike quickly, smoothly and cleanly before the flesh around it became so swollen the thing wouldn't move.

"Hang on, Eliot," she murmured under her breath, "it's coming … not long now … I'm going as fast as I can, I promise … it'll be over soon …"

And as she spoke she kept up a steady and even pull on the spike, which slid, oh so slowly, from Eliot's battered body.

Eliot wrapped his good arm around Hardison's ribs, his body shaking with agony, and never uttered a sound.

"GOT IT!" Parker finally exclaimed, her voice a yell of triumph.

Eliot collapsed, blood running in streams down his chest and back. Hardison laid him gently on his side and folded Eliot's jacket under his head to cushion it against the ground. Eliot coughed, his voice rasping in his throat. It was over.

Dropping the bloody spike, Parker stripped off her gloves, put on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves, and pressed two pressure bandages against the bleeding holes.

"Saline," she ordered.

Hardison passed her the sterile plastic vials and watched as she sluiced out the wound, hoping against hope that she could prevent infection. A few pieces of rotten wood were flushed from the injury, and Hardison wiped them away with a gauze pad.

A few agonising minutes passed as Parker and Hardison kept up the pressure, but the blood flow slowed, and then became a red ooze.

"Jus' … jus' strap it up." Eliot wheezed, the blazing pain easing a little. He felt better without that damned spike sticking through his shoulder. "Strap my arm tight to my ribs. It … it'll be fine. Just gotta keep it still. We gotta get moving."

" _Excuse me?_ "

Hardison was dumbfounded.

Parker glanced at him as she applied the antiseptic and began to bandage the wounds. She said nothing.

"Give me an hour or so … let me rest for a bit, get some water in me an' then we can move out. Maybe you could bury the bones before we go?"

He sounded better, clearer.

"No." said Hardison. "Not doin' that."

Eliot scowled.

"We're movin' on, Hardison. We can't stay here –"

"Why not?" Hardison asked stubbornly. "We can camp here tonight an' you can rest up, eat, sleep. We'll see how you feel in the morning." _Like shit_ , he added mentally.

Eliot struggled up onto his elbow, despite Parker's _tsk_ of irritation.

"Oh yeah? An' how're you gonna stop me?" Eliot had that dangerous edge to his voice, weak though it was.

"With one finger, bro. Look atcha. You couldn't whup a fluffy cute lil' kitten right now."

Eliot's lip curled into a snarl.

"I can still whup _you_!"

"GUYS!"

Parker had finished strapping Eliot's left arm to his torso, keeping it supported, and was now clearing up the debris scattered around her from her task. She held the spike and its old and fragile wooden shaft in her hands, studying it.

"WHAT?" Hardison and Eliot growled in unison.

Parker looked up from the spike.

"It's broken." Her voice cracked with fear.

Eliot flinched.

"Damn." He said quietly, his voice rasping.

Hardison blinked.

"Broken?" He realised how dumb he sounded, but couldn't help it.

Parker nodded, her face riven with shock.

"I didn't do it right. Some of the wooden bit broke off. It's still inside Eliot."

To be continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

"I broke it, Eliot … I'm so sorry … I … I …"

Parker was inconsolable, sitting with the spike in her hands, still covered in Eliot's blood and streaked with particles of rotten, disintegrating wood.

She dropped it, stood up, and ran.

Watching her stumble away towards the fallen tree, Eliot struggled to get to his feet, but was foiled by Hardison gently but firmly pressing down on the hitter's good shoulder.

"Whoa there, Tex," he soothed, "don't worry. She just needs a minute. You know Parker. She's gotta process it in that Parker-y way she has, try an' make sense of stuff."

Eliot leaned back against the tree, chest heaving, his strength waning.

"It ain't her fault." He rasped, voice weak but forceful, "she didn't do anythin' wrong." His good hand suddenly grasped Hardison's jacket. "You gotta tell her, man! You gotta tell her she did good … the wood's rotten – nothin' she could do."

Hardison nodded in agreement.

"But she figures if it wasn't for her, you wouldn't've got hurt in the first place, El. I know, I know … " Hardison saw the grim, desperate set of Eliot's lips, "sometimes it's as though nothin' touches her, and then, right outta nowhere, she gets herself all knotted up about stuff. Remember those orphans in Serbia? Wouldn't let it go. An' now she's upset 'cause she thinks she's made a bad situation a whole lot worse."

Eliot leaned his head back against the bark of the pine and closed his eyes, perspiration on his face and torso. He shook his head and let his fingers slacken on Hardison's jacket.

"It was my fault. I shoulda guessed. That poor bastard who lived up here … he must've been helluva paranoid … a lot of 'em are … he'd've set a booby trap with a trip wire every time he went out. Hell, I'd have done the same. Figures. My fault, Hardison. _Not hers_."

The tall hacker sat for a moment, studying his friend. Eliot was in bad shape, and the honest truth of it was that they were stuck up here in this wilderness, at least until Eliot stabilised. He seemed to think he could walk out of here, but Hardison doubted it.

"Look … Eliot … let's get you warmed up … get those shirts on you an' your jacket, an' then I'll go talk to Parker. We gotta talk, all three of us. Decide what we do next."

Eliot narrowed pain-filled eyes at Hardison.

"I already said –"

Hardison raised a hand, stopping Eliot working himself up into a snit, and nodded.

"I know what you said, brother. But right now … _right now_ … you ain't in any fit state to stand up, let alone walk off this mountain. So it makes sense to light a fire, eat something hot, and let you rest up overnight. We'll see if we can move you in the morning."

Eliot thought for a moment. He came to a decision.

"So leave me. Parker can read maps an' you got plenty of food to see you to the end, so leave me and send out help when you get back."

Hardison sighed deeply. He had expected this.

" _No_ , you dumb redneck, we are _not_ goin' to leave you here. _Kapish?_ "

Eliot didn't deal well with frustration. He scowled, gave Hardison his 'angry eyes' and opened his mouth to let rip.

"Yeah, yeah, so you're pissed." Hardison said, waving a tired hand at Eliot. "You're gonna whup my nerdy ass blah-blah-blah … ain't happenin', Eliot. Live with it."

A throaty growl of annoyance was the only reply he got, and then he heard a soft grunt of pain.

"See? Now you went an' hurt yourself 'cause you got all antsy." He grinned at Eliot. "See what happens? Eliot throws a tantrum when he has boo-boos, an' when he don't get what he wants he thinks he can have a massive hissy-fit."

Hardison grimaced, his bottom lip protruding in a parody of a sulk.

"Aw diddums," he added.

Eliot glared as hard as his wounded state would allow, and then he looked away, muttering dire threats under his breath. Hardison was just glad he couldn't make any of it out.

For some reason, however, Eliot's grousing made his heart lighter. Eliot was fighting. And if Eliot was fighting, and could _keep_ fighting, Hardison felt they might just have a chance of coming out of this alive.

* * *

Parker sat beside the fallen tree and continued the job of finding what was left of James Preston, Marine and Vietnam veteran. There really wasn't much to find, she realised. Probably animals and the weather had seen to the destruction or scattering of many of the bones, but she felt better knowing that they could at least lay what was left of the skeleton to rest.

"I'm sorry I can't find the rest of you James," she whispered. "You don't mind if I call you James, do you? 'Cause I don't know if you were a sergeant or a captain, or what."

She lifted the skull and the remains of the lower jaw, and very carefully placed them on the cloth.

"We're going to try and find your family, James. Eliot promised. And Eliot _always_ keeps his promises."

She sat silently for a moment or two, and then then added a couple of small, unidentified bones to the little pile on the cloth.

"Eliot was a soldier too, you know." Parker sighed deeply. "He's really tough, and mostly angry, but now he's hurt really bad, and it's my fault. I thought I could do it … pull that spike out of him … but I got it wrong. He's gonna get real sick, an' infection's going to set in, and … " she sighed again. "I can't lose him. He's my grumpy Eliot. And he gave me a really wonderful birthday … he and Hardison. And he keeps us _all_ safe. And he's a really good cook, an' sings like a grouchy angel, and … and … he's _my Eliot_."

She sat still, and realised that all of the bones were now on the cloth. She quietly gathered up the four corners, tied the whole thing into a neat bundle, and stood up.

"You're right, James. I have to go back. Try and make things right. They both need me. Hardison couldn't find his way out of a paper bag, and Eliot … " her voice faded for a moment. "He … he just _needs_ me."

And with the little bag of bones held safely in her grasp, she turned and made her way back to her family.

* * *

By the time Parker had wandered back to where Eliot lay propped against the big pine, Hardison had wrangled the hitter into a warm, insulated undershirt, clean plaid shirt and his perforated jacket, still bloody, but essential in keeping Eliot warm.

Parker sat down beside Eliot, Hardison eyeing her as unobtrusively as he could.

"You okay now, babe?" he said quietly.

Parker, still looking haunted, nodded. She reached out for Eliot's good hand and held it, and Hardison was surprised Eliot let her. He wasn't touchy-feely at the best of times, and when he was feeling bad he was usually a no-go area. But he let her wrap small fingers around his and then he rested both against his chest, over his heart.

Parker held up the bundle of bones.

"I got everything of James I could find," she said in a small voice.

Eliot turned his head, still resting on the tree trunk, to gaze at her.

"Good," he said, his voice dry and ragged with pain. "That's … _good_. You've done right by him, Parker. Now we gotta put him some place right for him. Maybe where he can watch the sunrise an' see the mountains every day, just like he did when he was alive."

"Where he can be in harmony," she added sadly. "Eliot?"

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"I'm sorry. About everything."

"Don't be." Eliot let out a huffing sigh. "You saved my life."

"No. No, I didn't. I think I might have killed you."

Eliot snorted.

"Hell, no. I've had a whole lot worse, an' survived. Now, we gotta figure out how to get outta here."

Eliot, ever the pragmatist, had sensibly changed the subject. Maybe if Parker had a strategy to work on, it would take her mind off her guilt.

"Eliot thinks we should leave him here an' head down the mountain and send help." Hardison interjected.

Parker raised her eyebrows in astonishment.

"Don't be silly," she said firmly. "That would be dumb. You'd die."

Hardison cocked his head at Eliot.

"See? Dumb idea. Parker hath spoken."

"Makes sense to _me_ ," muttered Eliot quietly.

"You're sick, so you're making no sense," Parker said a little more brightly. "You can be stupid when you're hurt, Eliot. Let us do the thinking."

Eliot could think of an awful lot of things to say to that, but suddenly he was too tired and too sore to be bothered. His shoulder and side were on fire, his guts were roiling with nausea, and he was cold. So, so cold, even after Hardison had got him dressed. Now _that_ had been embarrassing. A grown man who was normally able to whup his weight in wildcats, unable to dress himself.

He began to drift.

Wildcats. Cougars … lots of those here in the high mountains. Bears. He knew he could not fight them off if left behind, and he reeked of blood. He'd be dead within a day.

He also knew Parker and Hardison weren't up to the job of reaching the valley they were aiming for, not really. They didn't have the wilderness savvy to make it. So … it would have to be Plan Z – the absolutely last choice they had. He would have to take them down the mountain himself. Not so difficult, really. All he had to do was stand up and walk. Simple.

"Eliot?"

He was snapped back to reality by Hardison.

"Hmmm?"

"Wanna lie down for a bit? You've lost a bit of blood, bro, so why not have some water, try an' eat something an' then get some sleep? You've not had the best day."

Eliot wanted nothing more than to have a drink and slip into restful oblivion, but he had something to do first.

"Parker?"

He felt Parker's hand squeeze his.

"What? What can I do?"

"Use the spike to go dig a hole somewhere for James. Make it nice, okay? Promise?"

He heard the smile in Parker's voice as she answered.

"I promise. I'll mark it too, so if his family want to come see him, they can find him."

"Good." Eliot relaxed a little. "That's good." He smiled sleepily, his thinking processes beginning to slow down. "Awesome. Fan-TAStic … super-dooper … most _excellent_ …" He knew he was rambling but couldn't help himself.

"No you don't El," Hardison's voice jarred him awake. "Water. Food. An' then sleep. A'ight?"

"Sure … sure …" Eliot opened his eyes lazily, and Hardison could see the haze of pain in the blue depths. "Not hungry though."

Parker screwed up her face, worried. She loosened her hand from his and poked him gently in his good arm.

"Ow." Eliot murmured. "Sadist. Pokin' a wounded man when he's down."

"Eat, Sparky," she ordered waspishly. "Once Hardison's got a fire going, you'll feel a bit warmer and you can have something hot to eat." She waited a moment. "Are you listening?"

Eliot chuckled painfully.

"Yeah, I'm listening. Just thinkin' about how Hardison is goin' to light a fire is all. Now _that_ I gotta see."

* * *

As it turned out, it only took Hardison three tries to get a fire going, and for the first time in what seemed forever, Eliot began to warm up.

Hardison actually made a very good mother hen. A full canteen of water was placed beside Eliot, and he had even offered to hold the canteen to Eliot's lips for him in case his hand shook. Eliot had batted the hacker's hand away in embarrassment and managed to handle the canteen perfectly well, thank you very much.

Next, Hardison found some organic dried soup in Eliot's rucksack, and added it to some water from Parker's canteen. Eliot had spotted a couple of big black mushrooms at the base of a tree, and after spending five minutes convincing Hardison they were edible and that they weren't going to die a horrible and painful death, Hardison sliced them up into the soup, disgust oozing from every pore. If Eliot had felt better, he would have had a blast pulling Hardison's chain.

Half an hour later, Parker returned, looking sombre.

"Well … I buried him just at the edge of the clearing," she explained, crouching down beside Eliot and warming herself by the fire. Even on a sunny day, it was cold here in the crisp fall weather. "I made sure he could see the mountains and the sky and the woods. I think it's nice. I hope he likes it," she added.

Eliot nodded.

"Sounds pretty. Thanks for doin' that, sweetheart. It means a lot."

The three of them sat a while, and as the sun began to go down, Hardison passed around soup in canteen mugs, and was surprised when the mushrooms turned out to be outstanding.

"They're called horns of plenty, Hardison. Gourmet food. Watch it though. They may make you _fat_."

But even the good food didn't tempt Eliot's appetite. He managed a few mouthfuls, but he was too weary and nauseous to eat more. He washed it down with more water, topped up with a dose of electrolytes from his emergency pack, and finally he had had enough.

"Gotta sleep," he muttered. He felt woozy. His shoulder was raw with pain, and he wondered about the old, mouldy wood fragments buried deep within. Even if he had added forceps to his medikit, they would have been of no use. The wood would have crumbled to pieces before it could be removed. No, he would have to knuckle down, go to a hospital and have surgery to flush the crap out of the wound.

"C'mon, Eliot. Lie down, man. Got your sleeping bag ready, an' we'll be here if you need us. All you gotta do is say somethin' an' we'll be right there." Hardison had appeared at his elbow.

"M'fine," Eliot mumbled.

"No you're not," Parker declared stoutly. "But you will be. I promise," she added.

Between them, they managed to ease Eliot onto his side on the sleeping bag, and Parker suddenly shifted to Eliot's head, settling him in her lap. She wrapped herself in her sleeping bag, and laid a reassuring hand on Eliot's forehead, carding fingers through his thick hair.

"Comfy?" she whispered.

Eliot felt Hardison wrap his own sleeping bag around Eliot's prone body, tucking it in for both warmth and support.

"Yeah. Not too bad. Hardison … you're … you're gonna get frozen, man…"

Hardison grinned.

"Nah. I'll be fine. Gotta keep the fire going, so I'll be toasty warm." His voice softened in concern. "Rest up, bro. Don't worry about a thing. We got you."

As Eliot dozed off into an uneasy, pain-filled sleep, he wondered what he had done to deserve having a family who would watch his back.

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

It was the longest, coldest, most difficult night Hardison had had since he was a boy, before his Nana took him in and became his lifeline.

The temperature fell below freezing, as it had the night before, but this time Hardison didn't have the protection of his sleeping bag. He slipped on another hoodie, zipped up his jacket and then doubled up on a pair of fingerless gloves under a pair of insulated mittens.

Parker was warmer, but she didn't want to move, disturbing Eliot in the process. Her back, resting against the tree trunk ached and her rump was numb, but she sat as still as she could as Eliot lay sprawled on his side, his head on her lap.

She watched Hardison in the bright flames of the fire, hunched with cold, feeding the embers with logs he had found outside the cave. James Preston's cache, chopped many years before and never used.

Every time Hardison caught Parker's eye, he asked how Eliot was … how _she_ was … how they were both doing. And there was not one word of his own discomfort.

Eliot was having a rough night. His dreams were vague and disturbing, shot through with constant, mind-numbing pain, and he would try to ease what he could, but there was no respite.

The only thing anchoring him, keeping him safe, was the feel of someone's hand on his forehead or holding his good hand … slender fingers stroking his wrist or smoothing his hair. When he muttered uneasily, her voice was calming, soft and gentle, and another deeper voice would stir him and raise his head and encourage him to drink more water.

"C'mon, Eliot … just one more sip … we gotta replace all that blood you lost …" and then the voice would slide away like mercury, quicksilver memories that lived at the edge of his consciousness.

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that he awoke fully, woolly around the edges, but conscious.

"What … what time is it?" he rasped, his throat feeling like sandpaper.

Hardison looked up from his place by the fire, nursing a cup of coffee. He checked his watch.

"A little after three. How are ya doin'?"

"Reckon I'm still breathin'." Eliot shifted, wincing. "But only just," he added and coughed.

"Need some water?"

The hitter nodded, trying not to disturb Parker who was dozing, head back and mouth open. She let out a little snore.

Eliot took a few mouthfuls of water from a canteen cup Hardison offered him, and felt better after the clear chill of the liquid trickled into his belly.

Hardison topped up his coffee and studied his friend. He had checked Eliot's temperature during the night with an aural thermometer he had found in the Big Damn Medikit, and while a little high, it wasn't at this point a reason for concern. He knew body temperature usually rose at night. They would check Eliot's wounds in the morning and re-bandage them.

And then they would find out if he could even begin to try and walk them off this mountain.

"You think I can't make it," Eliot murmured softly.

 _Typical_ , Hardison thought. Even as hurt as he was, Eliot could figure out what he was thinking. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"El … I don't know, man. Maybe. Maybe not. I've seen you take down a terrorist with two bullet holes in you … I've seen you so beat up you can hardly move, and you still manage to work through it to finish the job.. But _this_ … it's three, maybe four days in difficult terrain an' who knows what else is lurkin' out there. You got stuff stuck in that hole in your shoulder that could floor you in a day if an infection sets in." He took another sip of coffee, feeling the warmth in his chest. "You could up an' die on us Eliot, an' we probably couldn't do a damn thing about it."

"Well," Eliot said, "I'd better not die, then."

Hardison, tired and cold, grinned.

"Damn right, bro."

"Urk!" said Parker, as she awoke with a start. "Sparky?" She winced as stiff muscles objected to the sudden movement.

"Right here," Eliot whispered as he reached for her hand. She smiled down at him, but the smile changed to a frown as Eliot gasped with pain, his shoulder and side throbbing.

"Why don't you take a pain pill?" she asked, worried.

Eliot shook his head, careful not to jar his wounds.

"Makes me kinda fuzzy. I don't like fuzzy," he answered grimly.

"Stupid!" Parker continued. "If they make you fuzzy, it means you won't be so sore and you might get some decent sleep. DUH!" she added, rolling her eyes.

Eliot opened his mouth to explain exactly why he didn't like being fuzzy, when he realised she was right. He shut up.

Hardison smirked and dug out a couple of heavy-duty analgesics, helping Eliot wash them down with more water.

"Hate these damn things," Eliot muttered.

"If they help, don't knock it," Hardison proffered. "An' if you get some proper rest with some relief from the pain, you might actually be able to stand up later. _Maybe_."

Eliot's lip curled.

"I can make it. Jus' watch me," he growled in defiance, even as the sickening thump of the pain in his shoulder and side almost took his breath away.

"We'll see, Mister-I-could pummel-Chuck-Norris-into-an-itty-bitty-hamburger-patty-Eliot-Spencer." Hardison rubbed his hand over his tired features. "You hungry, man? You should eat. There's a little more soup left, an' I can heat it up -"

Eliot gave a tiny head-shake. Any more than that and he thought he might just puke. He suddenly felt very dizzy. _Damn,_ but those pills worked fast.

"No food," he muttered and gulped.

Parker was puzzled. Her eyes widened. _Ohhhh … no -_

"Are you gonna hurl?" she demanded, dismayed. "Eliot! You have hold it in! There will be no puking, you hear me? I can't … just … "

" _Not_ gonna puke," he whispered, swallowing. "Jus' sore is all, an' those pills …"

"… shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach, El … not the best idea." Hardison said reprovingly.

"Who tol' me to take 'em?" Eliot groused, his voice hitching up a note or two. "You two did! I _told_ you I hate these things – "

Hardison sighed.

"Eliot?"

" _What?_ " Eliot rumbled with as much menace as he could muster.

"Shut up, man. If you're not gonna eat somethin' – which you should – or vomit, then just be quiet, be still, an' try to sleep." Hardison yawned. "We got a big day tomorrow, however it pans out."

Eliot eyed the hacker, and then turned his gaze to Parker, now looking down at him with suspicion. He knew he was beaten. The pills were not just numbing the pain, but also taking the edge off his alertness. God, he _hated_ fuzzy.

Parker realised Eliot was fast fading, the exhaustion that came with constant, nagging pain was sapping what little energy he had left. He really, _really_ needed to rest, and if it took drugs to do it, then Parker was okay with that. Plus it didn't look as though he was going to throw up. She relaxed.

She looked into blue eyes dulled with pain and weariness, but she was heartened by the sudden, small smile appearing on Eliot's lips, even as those same blue eyes finally closed in sleep. She understood then that he felt safe. That he felt _loved_ , even if he would never until his dying day admit such a thing.

She held his hand tight with both of hers, and gentled him into sleep with the touch of her thumb tracing his scarred knuckles.

"That's a Good Eliot," she murmured. "Sleep tight."

Hardison shook his head.

 _Eliot, my man … you KNOW we've got her right where she wants us. You got no chance, bro._

And as the fire flickered and danced with heat and the stars sang silently in the night sky, Alec Hardison slid into a light sleep.

* * *

Eliot woke with a start.

He went through his usual mental check list.

Threat, imminent. Hmm … birds singing unconcernedly … no sounds of clashing weapons or gunfire … no stench of cordite or body odour from sneaky bad guys … no dark movement on the edge of his vision …

 _Check._

Okay. No danger about. So where was he?

Trees. Probably mountains if the slight scent of snow meant anything. A distant rill of running water.

He was somewhere he normally loved to be. The wilderness.

 _Check._

Right. So, was he alone?

Oh, he remembered. _Hardison_.

Turning his head from where he lay on his back, he saw Hardison lying scrunched up under a warm, thick sleeping bag next to a still-warm fire, dead to the world. He could hear the hacker's regular breathing, so there was obviously nothing wrong with him. _Well, no more than normal_ , Eliot added mentally.

 _Check._

Parker.

She wasn't close by.

Eliot frowned, a little confused. He had vague, muzzy memories of Parker. She had his head on her lap and held his hand. _So_ embarrassing. But right now he had his head on a folded jacket.

Movement caught his eye. Ah, there she was. Parker was doing warm-up exercises, slow, elegant tumbles and backflips, stretching stiff muscles and loosening joints. Well, that was excellent.

Parker.

 _Check._

Now the interesting bit.

 _Why?_

Why had Eliot brought Hardison and Parker to one of his own private and guarded places to get away from … well … Hardison and Parker. Eliot had to think hard about that one. Maybe a hot cup of coffee would chase the fuzzy from his not-normally-lethargic brain.

Physically he felt beat-up but fair. His left shoulder was on the edge of screaming territory and his lower left side hurt like a bitch, but he often awoke feeling as though he'd gone through ten rounds with a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was the nature of the job. That was why he should have bought shares in an ice factory.

He tried to sit up.

Moments later, when he had managed to dampen down the dreadful, all-consuming agony, he remembered why he shouldn't have done that without help.

Birthday present. Booby trap. Metal spike. Stuck on this goddamn mountain with Hardison and Parker, neither of whom knew a damn thing about wilderness survival.

 _Check, dammit_.

Then a new urgency crept into his consciousness.

He really, _really_ , had to _pee_.

"Hardison." His voice came out a weak croak. He swallowed, and hoped for some saliva in his mouth before he tried again. " _Hardison!_ "

Hardison went from sound asleep with the fairies to alert and ready in less than two seconds. He sat up.

"WHA'?"

"I need a hand." Eliot murmured quietly. This was going to be monumentally embarrassing. The _Mount Everest_ of embarrassing.

Hardison knuckled sleep from his eyes and vaguely wondered why he was wrapped in a sleeping bag. But he decided a man didn't query these things, and yawned.

"Hey, El. How're you feeli –"

"I need a hand, Hardison. I gotta stand up," Eliot said abruptly and somewhat testily.

"Oh." Hardison's eyebrows shot up. "You must be feelin' a whole heap better. But shouldn't you wait for something to eat –"

"No!" Eliot interrupted. "I need to _stand up_. Help me out here, will ya?"

Realisation crept onto Hardison's face like a revelation.

"Ohhhh," he said, nodding slowly, "You gotta _stand up_. Riiiight … you want me to help, huh?"

Eliot took a couple of short, painful yet steadying breaths before he answered.

"Yes. I have to stand up. And …" he steeled himself. "… and I need help. To _stand up_. An' … an _that's all_."

Hardison scratched his head.

"Nothin' else? 'Cause, cause if you're, like, wantin' me to _help_ I ain't doin' it, man. Any man worth his salt can go pee one-handed. You sayin' you can't? Big, nasty, has-a-worse-temper-than-a-whole-pack-of-hyenas Eliot Spencer? That's sad, man. Jus' … _sad_."

Eliot, hurting, desperate and embarrassed beyond belief, lost it.

"God _dammit_ , Hardison! _Just_. _Friggin. HELP ME!_ "

Hardison, grinning like a cat that got the cream and ate it, got to his feet and over the next five minutes, helped a very unsteady and frighteningly weak Eliot to his feet.

For the first time since being hurt, Eliot felt in control of himself. Having his arm strapped tight to his body was immobilising the injury and helped him control the pain up to a point. He stood hunched, wobbly and not sure that if he took a step he wouldn't collapse in a heap. But he had to try.

He reached out and braced himself against Hardison's shoulder for a moment, and took a step. Then another. And another. He took his hand away and stood by himself, taking more steps. He grinned. He was upright, under control, and now he could go pee.

Mission accomplished. Almost.

Hardison watched as Eliot slowly made his way into a small copse of trees, and then turned away to afford his friend some privacy. There was a short flurry of cursing, but minutes later Eliot appeared and picked his way back to Hardison, his good arm supporting his wounded shoulder. He looked better.

"Okay?" Hardison asked.

Eliot nodded, the lines of desperation on his face now gone.

Hardison smiled slowly.

"Well," he said. "You did it."

Eliot frowned.

"What? Pee?"

"Stood up." Hardison's smile widened. "You said you could do it. An' you did, bro."

Eliot suddenly understood. Hardison had known exactly how to pull his chain to motivate him. Sonofa _bitch_.

Hardison winked.

"Yeah. I know. Geeky whup-ass comin' when you're all healed up. Break both my legs. All that."

Eliot smiled nastily.

"You have _no idea_."

"Sparky! You're awake! And _standing_! Awesome!"

Parker had finished her exercise and returned to their small camp, and Eliot cringed.

Dear God, he hoped she didn't do that 'flinging-Parker-at-Eliot' thing.

Instead, she gently leaned forward and rested her head on Eliot's good shoulder, putting a hand on his chest.

"Told you the pain pills would help," she mumbled into his shoulder. "You slept and slept and slept … I thought you were going to sleep all day!"

Looking at the dull day and the low clouds, Eliot figured by the faint shadows that it was past midday. He had probably slept for nearly ten hours. Unheard-of. But he did think he felt better for it.

Parker gave his good arm a light squeeze, and stepped back. She studied him for a time, and then patted him on the head.

"Food. Eat. It'll help. And maybe half a pain pill."

She waited expectantly.

"Okay," Eliot rasped. "Fine. But no pill."

Parker sighed.

"Suit yourself. C'mon."

And with Parker on one side and Hardison on the other, he was herded towards the fire where he was eased back down beside the tree trunk. An hour later, he had managed a small canteen cup of soup, almost a full canteen of water, and dozed for a while.

Hardison was worried that Eliot wasn't eating much. He knew it was probably the effect of his injuries, and the hitter was still suffering from slight nausea so it couldn't be helped, but he mentally challenged himself to try to get Eliot to eat little but often if he could.

His reverie was disturbed by Eliot, who was itching to get moving.

"Ain't it a bit late in the day?" he asked.

Eliot shook his head.

"We've still got a few hours of daylight left. We can get back onto the track, at least, an' then move a ways down. Won't be so exposed. We also need to get water, an' I know there are a few streams where we can top up the canteens. Help me up."

Eliot couldn't do much to assist them, so Hardison and Parker tidied the campsite, and split Eliot's load between them.

"What the hell is this?" Hardison asked, holding up a bag of what looked like lumps of fat in oiled paper.

"Pemmican," Eliot said as he eased himself down on the fallen tree. "Mixture of grease, dried lean meat an' berries all pounded together. High energy. Nutritious. Good eating." He grinned.

"That … that's disgusting," Hardison scowled. "I hope you ain't expectin' me to eat this."

"If you don't, you're not gonna survive up here for long, man," Eliot countered. "An ol' Cree woman taught me how to make it. Add some wild onions an' cook it with fried potatoes, an' … _mmm-mm!_ Good!"

Hardison unwrapped a square of the stuff.

Parker broke off a piece and chewed it.

She shrugged.

"It's food."

Hardison just looked at her.

"Eliot's right."

"About what?" Parker said, crunching and chewing her way through the mouthful of pemmican.

"There is something really, _really_ , wrong with you. An' Eliot? Just how many ol' ladies have taught you how to cook weird, nasty things like bugs an' grease balls? Hmmm?"

But Eliot didn't answer. He slowly managed to get to his feet and faced the edge of the clearing. His eyes narrowed.

"Eliot?"

The hitter lifted a finger.

Hardison objected.

"Uh-uh! Don't you do that 'shut up Hardison' thing with your finger, man! I got feelings you know, an' –"

"Shut up, Hardison!" Eliot hissed. "An' both of you. Get behind me. _Now_!"

"Eliot?" Parker moved slowly to stand between Hardison and Eliot.

"I said … _behind me!_ "

But before any of them could move, a huge shape appeared suddenly from among a big clump of chokecherries, snuffling to itself.

Hardison's eyes widened.

"Is … is that …"

"Yeah, Hardison," Eliot snarked. "It's a bear."

To be continued …


	6. Chapter 6

Eliot shifted his weight, bracing himself, as evenly balanced as he could be with a badly perforated shoulder and an eight-inch long slice taken out of his side. Raising his head high, his nostrils flared and his visage was fiercer than a hawk on the hunt as he faced the creature in front of them.

The bear was large, red-brown and curious. The broad head swung towards them, and the animal huffed gently, obviously surprised.

" _Behind. Me_." Eliot grated quietly.

Parker edged sideways and Eliot could feel the energy pulsing from her.

"We can climb a tree!" She hissed, her voice wavering between excitement and terror.

Hardison was still standing, wide-eyed and rigid, beside Eliot.

" _That_. Is a _bear_."

"Yeah, Hardison," Eliot whispered gruffly, "one that can run at twenty-five miles an hour an' one that can climb friggin' trees, so for the last time … _get behind me!_ "

Eliot shifted, his shoulder objecting agonisingly to the tension in his frame. But Hardison and Parker finally did as he told them, and began to very slowly move to stand slightly behind Eliot.

The bear huffed, its mobile upper lip curling, scenting the air.

Eliot stood his ground.

The bear stilled for a moment, watching the three humans.

Hardison held his breath. _Damn_ , but that thing was big. He gulped.

On the other hand, Parker was in flight mode. Her breathing had escalated and every one of her muscles was poised, quivering with tension. She was ready to _run_.

Eliot didn't move. He was as still and as grounded as the mountains around them, solid and steady.

The bear reared up onto its hind legs, front limbs and broad, clawed paws extended. It gave a soft grunt and its small, rounded ears pricked forward.

It was listening to something, Hardison realised. And then he heard it too.

 _What the …?_

"El, are you _growling?_ "

The soft rumble in Eliot's chest became slightly louder.

"Stop it!" Parker hissed. "You'll make it angry!"

Eliot took a step towards the bear.

Hardison, despite himself, took a step forward too. Parker's eyes widened in terror. She stepped up behind Eliot.

What the hell was he _doing?_

Eliot stopped his growl for a second or two to murmur softly "Stay with me!" before setting up the deep resonance once again and taking two more steps towards the bear.

"Stop goin' all Wolverine on its ass, Eliot, and do not – _NOT_ – make it eat us!" Hardison stage-whispered, his voice shaky with fear.

Parker resisted the absurd urge to grab Eliot's good arm and hang on.

The bear suddenly dropped to all fours and advanced a couple of yards, and Parker could make out a strange clicking sound. It seemed suddenly uncertain.

Eliot grinned triumphantly.

"That's right, you hairy moron … don' even _think_ about invadin' _my_ territory!" He took another two steps forward, Hardison and Parker matching his, helplessly following his lead like puppets on strings. "Both of you … make yourselves big … round, solid … show no fear. This is _your_ home … _you_ live here, not some teenage half-grown cub like him …"

Eliot's soft growl returned, only this time it was louder.

Hardison and Parker looked at one another.

Okay. Eliot wanted big. And when you were faced by a bear and Eliot was the only thing between you and said bear, you did whatever Eliot told you to do, and it didn't matter how crazy it all sounded. Insane Eliot had saved their behinds before.

Hardison straightened, making every inch of his tall frame and broad shoulders count. He cleared his throat and did an experimental growl.

"Shush!" Parker snapped. "Eliot's the growler!" Eliot's soft grumble increased a little in reply.

She knew her slender figure really wasn't going to amount to much in the 'big' department, but Parker put her hands on her hips and stood as tall as she could.

And taking their cue from Eliot, they took two more steps forward.

The bear flinched.

"It's working!" Parker crowed quietly.

The animal certainly did look confused.

This weird assembly of creatures in front of it was odd and smelled weird even though one of them was obviously wounded. The scent of blood recently spilled would normally have made the creature easy prey. But it was with its pack, and it was making a threatening noise, a low, powerful growl that confused the bear.

Eliot took one final step forward.

The bear decided it wasn't _that_ hungry.

It suddenly wheeled about and ran, its broad frame with its round rump and stump of a tail disappearing along the trail and into the distance.

Parker whooped in triumph.

Flailing her arms, she set off after the bear, yelling in delight.

"PARKER!" Hardison bawled in alarm, even as the profoundest sense of relief flooded his system, adrenaline still pumping through him.

"Let her go," Eliot muttered, "she's safe enough. She won't go out of our sight."

Hardison noticed Parker was already slowing up. His heart was still pounding as though it was trying to escape from his ribcage. He was both ecstatic and goddamn _furious_.

" _What the HELL, Eliot -_ "

His voice died away as he looked at his friend.

Eliot was ashen. His blue gaze was clouded, hazy, and Hardison caught him as he suddenly crumpled, groaning as the hacker's grip made his wounds send lightning bolts of agony through his body.

" _Eliot!_ "

Hardison eased both himself and Eliot to the ground, cradling the hitter in his arms, holding him protectively to his chest.

"Easy, bro … it's okay … you did it … damn bear ran away …" Hardison relaxed his hold a little, knowing he must be hurting Eliot, "you made a grizzly bear _goddam run away_ …"

Parker was suddenly beside them, hands reaching out to check Eliot's wounds.

"Bear's gone," she said firmly. "And you scared the _crap_ out of me," she added as she unzipped Eliot's jacket. Eliot rested his head on Hardison's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"Black bear." He whispered, his voice hitching in pain.

"Colour blind as well as crazy," Hardison muttered, using one arm to hold Eliot steady and using his free hand to help Parker ease the jacket aside. "That bear was brown. _Big. Brown. Grizzly_."

Eliot shook his head. _Damn, but he hurt_.

"Hardly any grizzlies up here. Black bear. Long snout. Broad head. No hump."

"We're going to have to change these bandages out, Alec." Parker looked at the hacker, a worried frown on her face. "He's bleeding again."

Eliot made no sign that he had heard her.

"Grizzly bear … bigger … _much_ bigger, badder, shaggier, gotta shoulder hump. It's a very distinctive hump," he added. "Black bears can be brown, blue … this one was a cinnamon. A youngster. Black bears … often frightened of humans. Didn't know what we were, didn't wanna to push it … so he ran." Eliot would have shrugged if he didn't feel so bad. "Not in any _real_ danger. He was in good condition … not hungry … although he could smell that I was bleedin'. If … if I'd been on my own he mighta tried somethin'."

Parker and Hardison exchanged glances. Eliot Spencer. _Crazy asshole_.

Hardison sighed.

"Eliot, so help me God …" he took a deep breath to take his temper down a couple of notches and then nodded to Parker. "El, you ready to move? We gotta patch up those holes in you again. Can you get up?"

Eliot struggled and managed to sit up on his own, even as Parker let out a small chirp of annoyance.

Realising that Eliot was holding his own, Hardison and Parker both arose, and between them gently hoisted Eliot to his feet.

He looked better, with more colour in his face and the weakness fading. The adrenaline rush had just taken the strength from him once the danger was over.

Parker studied him for long moments, gazing earnestly into his face.

Eliot drew down puzzled eyebrows.

"What?"

Parker suddenly gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, whispered 'thank you' under her breath, and then was off, fetching the Big Damn Medikit from her rucksack.

Eliot, surprised, allowed a silly grin onto his face for a nanosecond as he looked at Hardison.

The hacker scowled.

"If you think you're gonna get one of those from me, brother, you got another thing comin'. C'mon. Let's get your crazy bear-whisperin' ass patched up _again_." And as he looped Eliot's good arm over his shoulder, he muttered to himself. "Goin' all Crocodile Dundee … growlin' … _damnation_ Eliot …"

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Eliot had been checked out and the bleeding tear in his side treated and re-bandaged. Parker, not one for fussing, hadn't been particularly gentle, still annoyed a little at Eliot's unconventional face-off with the bear. But she looked him over, happy to see the bleeding had been minimal and the wounds were not overly swollen or red.

The soiled bandages were burned, the site was cleared and everything packed away.

Eliot was sitting on the fallen tree when Hardison strolled up to him, holding what appeared to be a long stick.

"Here," he said, holding the object out for Eliot, who took it in his good hand.

It was a strong, sturdy thumb-stick, a long, straight length of wood with a 'v' at the top for Eliot to use as a walking aid.

Eliot looked it over. It was solidly made, and the natural join in the tree limb had been adapted to create the notch in the top where Eliot could rest his thumb, while gripping the shaft with the rest of his hand. He used it to get to his feet, and he checked the length. Hardison had gauged the height perfectly.

Eliot nodded.

The thumb-stick was ideal.

"Thanks, man." He hefted it again. "It's … it's … _perfect_." He was touched. Now he felt more able to fulfil his job … taking care of his family and get them down off this mountain. It was a thoughtful gift.

Hardison smiled.

"I ain't just a pretty face, bro. Amazing what you can do with a measurin' tape an' a pocket knife."

Eliot was suddenly puzzled.

"But … but you don't _have_ a pocket knife."

Hardison grinned.

"I used yours."

 _What?_ Eliot suddenly went cold.

"That Swiss Army knife you got." Hardison shrugged. "I might've blunted a couple of the blades, but hey … needs must when the devil drives, m'man."

Eliot snarled.

"You … what … I … you _don't touch my stuff_ , Hardison! _Hear_ _me?"_

Hardison's grin widened.

* * *

It was time to leave.

Eliot hoped they would get a few hours of walking time, enough so that they would reach the original track by the ridge and then head downwards towards the valley below. Then during the next day they would travel towards the river, follow its course for possibly two days, and then they would be within the reach of civilisation.

That was the plan.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage.

So far, his plans had been a spectacular failure. Booby traps, dead marines, bears ... and there were more tribulations to come. But, he decided, he would face those when he got to them. Plus he had Hardison and Parker along. While they were both completely pointless when it came to wilderness survival, they were two of the most talented, clever individuals he had ever known, and he knew he could trust them with his life – and in his severely wounded state, he could not ask for better comrades. Friends. _Family_.

But right now, he had something else to do.

Easing himself to his feet from his seat on the fallen tree, he used his new thumb-stick to move slowly towards a small pile of stones at the edge of the clearing. Parker and Hardison waited silently beside the little grave.

Eliot looked down at the final resting place of James R. Preston, U.S. Marine. Then he spent a minute looking out at the vista Parker had chosen for the interment. Mountains … beautiful forests … mist and a huge sky above. Eliot nodded. She had chosen well. When his time came, he wouldn't mind a place like this in which to rest his battered bones. He looked back to the grave.

"Parker found a great place for you, brother. I hope you like it," he murmured. "We gotta go now. I'm sorry it took a while for someone to find you, but I'm glad we could help out." He glanced at Hardison. "When we get home, Hardison will find your family. If anyone can find 'em, he can. We'll let them know where you are … what happened to you. An' we'll do right by you. I promise."

He felt Hardison's hand on his shoulder then, resting there, and Parker's slender fingers wrapped around his hand and the thumb-stick.

Eliot nodded again and straightened, the only salute he could give in his damaged state.

" _Semper Fi_ ," he whispered.

And as one, they turned and walked away from the lonely grave in the vastness of this great wilderness. They did not look back.

To be continued …


	7. Chapter 7

The going was slow but steady.

They travelled in single file, following the route Eliot had reworked to get them back on the trail he had originally planned to take.

Parker had instantly decided to take the lead. Her skills with blueprints and instinctive sense of direction came in to play, and once she had studied Eliot's map she could work with the compass he gave her. She was a little skimpy on how to interpret the lie of the land on Eliot's military-standard maps, but she would figure it out as she went along, she decided.

Hardison brought up the rear. With Parker working out the world around her as she went, he needed to keep an eye on the troublesome member of the team, who was slowly making his way along the broad sweep of the ridge, the edge of which gradually made its way down to the valley below. While watching Eliot, Hardison also had a scope he had wrestled out of Eliot's admittedly weak grip, saying it would be useful.

"That's a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-range sniper scope, Hardison," Eliot had growled. "The U.S. uses it. Mossad uses it. You break it, you _bought it_. _Understand?_ An' it _don't come cheap!"_

"Aw, El, as if I would do such a thing, man! I'm the geeky nerd here, so I got plenty of respect for the tech." Hardison had rested his hand over his heart to emphasise his earnestness.

Eliot had sniffed.

"It was a gift," he added, a little awkwardly. "From a friend." He paused. "A _lady_. So _don't break it_."

So, for the past hour, Hardison had spent his time driving Eliot nuts.

"A lady, huh? Who –"

" _No._ "

Pause.

"She jus' a _friend_ , or –"

" _No._ "

"Aww, c'mon Eliot, what kinda lady gives a man a sniper scope –"

"None of your _business_ , Hardison."

Silence.

"She in Mossad?"

"Hardison –"

"She _is!_ She's with Mossad! When didja – "

" _Dammit, Hardison_ –"

"Were you an' she, y'know …" Hardison whistled tunelessly. "Gettin' it on?"

Eliot began to growl.

"Man, listen to you, gettin' all riled up! Nothin' to be ashamed of! You still see her?"

Hardison was just one big cheesy grin.

Eliot simmered.

" _No._ "

Hardison nodded.

"Shame. She must be _soooome_ lady."

Eliot, manoeuvring himself with a little difficulty around a tumble of small rocks, glowered. Hardison was there in a moment, not touching his friend, but there if he was needed.

Eliot had managed to keep going for the remainder of the afternoon, his thumb-stick helping him balance, but he was looking pale and in pain. He swayed.

Hardison caught him as his legs began to buckle.

"Parker! Hold up a minute." He called out.

"M'okay … jus' need to rest a little …" Eliot's voice was a tired mumble.

Parker was beside them both in an instant, unscrewing the top of a canteen. Exchanging Eliot's thumb-stick for a mug, she smiled at him.

"C'mon, Sparky. Drink. You've lost a lot of blood, and you should eat something. D'you think you can carry on, or should we call it for the day?"

Eliot drained the cup of water, and while Parker refilled it, he nodded.

"I can go a little longer. I'll eat when we stop."

Parker nodded, and glanced at Hardison as Eliot slowly drank the water in his mug.

"From what I can figure out, we'll be down at the edge of the valley in an hour or so, and then I think we should stop. Look over there."

She pointed along the ridge and the gap in the mountains beyond.

Hardison lifted the scope, peering through it and adjusting the focus.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

Black, menacing cloud shot into crystal clear view, moving slowly but inexorably along the valley. Within two hours it would be upon them as it channelled its way through the valley, bringing heavy rain or even sleet on this late fall day.

He turned to the run of trees to the left of the lower part of the ridge. Leaning to the right so that he could follow the line of the edge below them, he scoped as much detail as he could, looking for anywhere … _anything_ … that could serve as some kind of emergency shelter. It made sense to him that if there was a cave higher up on the ridge, the same geological fabric might offer an overhang or even another cave.

 _There._

A shadow amongst the scrubby trees against the wall of the ridge, where millennia ago, an old water line had worn away the rock.

He handed the scope to Parker.

"Can you get us down there without hurtin' Eliot?"

"I can make it!" Eliot groused. "Jus' … let me catch my breath a moment …"

Parker crouched down and touched Eliot for a moment on his good shoulder.

"I know," she whispered.

He was sitting on the rock, his head hanging, his hair shadowing his gaunt face.

Parker reached out and tucked his hair back a little under his warm beanie. She frowned.

"How are you doin' there, Sparky?" her voice was soft with worry.

Eliot looked up. A wry smile crept onto his face, a thin sheen of perspiration glistening on his skin.

"Sore. But I'll live. Go do what you gotta do, Parker, an' Hardison and me, we'll be right behind you."

Parker nodded. She handed the scope back to Hardison, who watched his friends silently.

"I'll go ahead an' pick out a route. I'll be right back," she said.

And then she was gone, trotting along the edge of the ridge, her rucksack lying beside Eliot while she reconnoitred the landscape ahead.

Hardison lifted the scope to his eye once more, and tried to see beyond the oncoming rainclouds. The valley followed a small stream, a relic of what had once been a mighty river but long ago silted up with moraine and earth from centuries of floods and glacial seep.

But as he followed the line of the stream, he saw a faint glint of light on a larger body of water. The Minam river. Their next objective. He returned to the banks of the stream. The going didn't look too difficult. There didn't appear to be any boggy ground, just a sandy loam and boulders, something which he thought Eliot in his present condition could manage with help.

He looked down at his friend.

Eliot was slowly finishing off the dregs of water in the mug. Hardison thought he looked utterly exhausted.

"Rest easy, El. She'll be back soon, so take the time to catch your breath."

Eliot squinted up at him.

"Thanks, Hardison." He said.

"What for?" Hardison was puzzled.

"For pissin' me off," Eliot continued. He smiled tiredly. "Anger. It's somethin' I can work with. Keeps me motivated. You figured that out. Still don't mean I ain't gonna stab you in the neck if you keep it up, though."

Hardison returned the smile.

"Well, that's gonna be some time in the future, man, until all them holes in you have healed up."

They both lapsed into companionable silence for a few moments. But in the end, Hardison couldn't resist.

"So … this lady … she have a name?"

Eliot shrugged painfully.

"She sure was one helluva lady. Still is, in fact," he added.

Hardison's eyes widened.

"You _are_ still seein' her!"

Eliot's gaze became ever-so-slightly dangerous.

" _Shut up, Hardison_ ," he said.

* * *

Parker found herself faced with a dilemma.

According to the map and Eliot's neatly written notes, the ridge travelled a further two miles or so before dropping to the valley floor, but it would mean a fifty-foot scramble down a steep slope at the end. It would be easy, even fun, if Eliot had been sound and well, and no doubt he had chosen the route for the joy it would certainly have afforded Parker. The trip was her birthday gift, after all.

But with the hitter badly hurt and thoroughly exhausted, the steep slope was a no-go, and even if he could have managed it, they would have to double back for a couple of miles to reach the shelter of what had turned out to be a broad overhang in the ridge wall.

She paced back and forth above the overhang, the edge of the ridge sloping downwards for a dozen feet or so before a drop of nearly a hundred feet, she guessed, most of it nothing but air as the overhang cut into the rock below.

Parker frowned in concentration.

The drop to the floor of the valley here was technically nothing to her. She had the gear … the harness, the rope, the carabiners and pulley. She would be down there in seconds, and she could probably get back to the top in a minute or so. Hell, she could even get down there by leaping onto the top of a nearby tree and climbing down that way.

Hardison would be fine, even if she had to push him. He'd fallen off enough skyscrapers to manage the fall.

But Eliot …

She thought about it.

She could rig a loop for around his waist and his legs, but the pressure on his shoulder would be agonising. Attaching Eliot's harness to her own, she could control the slide down, and her ropes were certainly strong enough, but the damage she could cause … it didn't bear thinking about. But she had no other answer. This was their only option. Eliot had to be out of the storm when it came. He couldn't take a drenching on top of his already poor condition, so they would simply have to deal with the lesser of two evils.

Biting her lip, she turned and set off back to her friends.

* * *

"I can do this."

Eliot was struggling to his feet, using his thumb-stick as balance.

"Eliot, I could really, really hurt you!" Parker sounded desperate.

"So?" Eliot adjusted his grip on the thumb-stick.

"I … I'm just trying to explain –"

"Nothin' to explain, Parker." Eliot steadied himself. "We got a thing to do, so let's do it. We gotta get out of the weather. All of us. Whatever happens, we'll be safe an' dry, an' I can rest then. Pain I can take."

Hardison glanced at Parker, taking in the desperation and concern on her face.

"There's no other way to get down there?"

Parker shook her head, ponytail swinging.

"Nope. In the time we have … it's the only way. I can guide Eliot down and keep him steady, but … it's gonna hurt, Eliot. I can't … there's nothing I can do –"

Eliot smiled wearily. He leaned forward and gave Parker a tiny kiss on the cheek, making her blink with surprise.

"S'okay, darlin'. You know what you're doin'. I trust you."

Parker exhaled noisily. She studied Eliot for a moment. He looked … _broken_. She had seen him hurt before, but not like this. There had always been rest and comfort and care immediately afterwards, either in a hospital room – which was very rare and always under extreme pressure – or at a safe house or Leverage HQ surrounded by his family.

Here in the middle of a vast wilderness, no matter how beautiful, there was no respite for Eliot other than a chance for somewhere dry where his wounds could be tended and he could garner a little rest. And there would be much more pain, and even more strength-sapping trudging through rough terrain. For _days_. That sort of existence had been a part of his old life, before becoming a part of this odd little family. When all he had to look forward to was more killing, more violence … more hurt.

Hardison interrupted her thoughts.

"Go, girl – go get set up. Eliot an' me'll be right there, okay?"

"Second that." Eliot rasped.

Parker hesitated a moment, and then hefted her rucksack, swinging it up onto her shoulder.

"Give me fifteen minutes. I'll be ready."

And then she was gone.

* * *

Parker had been right. It was as sure as hell going to hurt, Eliot knew.

The first fat, heavy raindrops were beginning to drift in, the forerunners of what promised to be a torrential downpour with no sign of a let-up for the coming hours.

Eliot was cold. He was _really_ cold, his head ached, his shoulder and side were on fire, and he was strapped up like a ready-to-barbecue chicken.

Parker stood beside him checking the links to their harnesses, making sure the 'figure eight' rappel device was clear. She had to make sure that she could control both Eliot's weight and her own, not an easy job in an environment where the wind was beginning to rise and making the whole venture a whole lot less comfortable.

Hardison checked the piton Parker had hammered into a huge boulder ten feet from the edge, already loaded with the carabiner which would take the weight of the controlled descent.

"Good to go," he yelled above the rising wind.

Parker looked at Eliot. Eliot raised an eyebrow.

"You do know I like to run over the edge." Parker said.

"I had noticed," Eliot replied, face stoic.

"Can't this time," Parker added.

"Yeah." Eliot said. "Gotcha."

"Gonna walk." Parker said, by way of explanation. "Can you do that?"

"Well, yeah. Been doin' that since I was nine months old." Eliot was calm and confident.

"Let's go then."

"Yeah," Eliot said. "Let's."

And they slowly – and in Eliot's case, a tad unsteadily – walked slowly over the edge of the ridge.

As Hardison kept an eye on the ropes and piton, Eliot and Parker suddenly stepped away from the edge and swung free over the drop, Eliot letting out a deep grunt as his weight settled in the harness. He clutched tightly onto the steel link attaching him to the rope.

He had done this many times before, in many situations, but he had always been in control of his own rig. But he trusted Parker completely. Even as the pressure of the harness and the effort of keeping his body under control made his wounds roar with agony, he kept as still as he could. He couldn't distract her from her work.

"You guys all right?" Hardison's voice was a little distant.

"Fine!" Parker yelled back, expertly gauging the rate of fall, keeping it as even and as smooth as she could. But she knew Eliot was hurting badly. She could see it in the hollow eyes and the taut muscles along the hitter's jaw.

"Eliot?" she whispered.

Eliot just closed his eyes and bore the pain.

Parker chewed her lip in concentration. She was going slowly, knowing that Eliot could not have dealt with a speedy descent, but she was hating every moment. She mentally shook herself. Eliot _was_ dealing with it, and her job was to get them all safely down to the valley floor.

She frowned. She could hear something.

What _was_ that?

 _Oh God_.

 _Eliot was singing_.

He was singing very quietly … a soft, halting refrain, working its way past clenched teeth. It was a song he loved, a song he sang on very rare occasions when the team could persuade him and if he was in the right mood.

 _"Startin' … startin' from zero … got nothin' to lose …"_

His voice hitched in pain and he swallowed, but he didn't stop.

 _"Maybe we'll make somethin' … me, myself I got nothin' to prove_ … jeez …"

And so it went on, the gentle _timbre_ of his voice calming Parker as she slowly, oh so slowly, lowered them to the ground below.

The words died away as their feet touched the earth, and Eliot sagged in the harness, unable to keep himself upright any longer.

Parker let him fold gently to the ground, making sure his wounded shoulder was supported as he fell. Easing him onto his uninjured side, she hurriedly unbuckled the harness and freed him from the rig.

"Eliot? Eliot!" She touched his face, already wet from the blowing wind and increasing rain. He was out cold.

She swiftly unhitched her own harness and shouted to Hardison to throw down their rucksacks and the rest of their kit. Seconds later the rucksacks hit the ground a few yards away, followed by ropes and Eliot's thumb-stick, which landed across the rucksacks. As Parker lifted the equipment and threw it under the deep, dry overhang, a hum of the ropes indicated Hardison rappelling down from the edge.

Parker smiled fleetingly. She had taught him well. Flinging him off skyscrapers had obviously done the trick.

Hardison was unclipped and beside Eliot in seconds, gently cradling his unconscious form and easing him into the shelter of the overhang. He touched Eliot's skin. He was badly chilled.

"Damn," he muttered, and reached for the rucksacks. Unbuckling the first one he grabbed, he hauled out the sleeping bag within and tucked it around Eliot, and then turned to see Parker pack away the rigs and run the suspended ropes through the piton until they were free and pooling at her feet.

The rain was falling in earnest now, and ran in sheets along the valley, obscuring mountains and woods alike. The wind-chill had dropped the temperature until near freezing, and Hardison knew they wouldn't be moving from the overhang until the next day.

They were here for the duration.

* * *

Wind rattled the tarpaulin Parker had rigged across the sheltered side of the overhang, and even as the evening closed in and the rain continued to drift across the valley, they were sheltered from the worst of it.

Hardison's fire-making skills were improving and he had a blaze going at his very first try. A nearby stream had provided top-ups for the canteens and also plenty of boiled water for soup and hot coffee. Another canteen mug had been left out in the rain to provide Eliot with on-tap drinking water.

Eliot lay propped up on a rucksack, conscious now, warming his hands on the mug of soup Hardison was forcing him to sip, and he had to admit he felt lousy.

The abseil had knocked what was left of the stuffing out of him, and he didn't think he could move even if the apocalypse was upon them. His head was throbbing and his joints ached, and his shoulder was pulsing with pain.

"Okee-doke, Sparky! Let's get you checked out. Change those dressings."

Parker's cheery voice made Eliot wince.

The last thing he wanted was someone fussing around him, poking at his wounds and generally making his life a misery, but he knew Parker wouldn't stop until he succumbed to her hassle.

Putting down his soup, he quietly submitted to Hardison and Parker easing off his jacket and shirts, shivering slightly as the cold air hit his skin.

"How's it lookin'?" he asked Parker as she gently unwrapped the bandage around the shoulder wound. He was too tired and achy to be bothered inspecting the injury.

"Shit," muttered Hardison.

Parker felt a cold trickle down her spine which had nothing to do with the weather.

Both exit and entry wounds were red and swollen. The open holes, which had been allowed to drain in the hope that some of the fragments would work themselves out, were raw and discoloured.

"Eliot?" Hardison felt the heat emanating from Eliot's skin.

"Mmmm?" Eliot murmured, too worn out to react to very much.

"We got trouble."

Eliot glanced down at the entry wound in his shoulder. His heart missed a beat.

"Ohhh … crap," he said.

To be continued …

* * *

Author's note:

Eliot's song is a cover of Tracy Chapman's 'Fast Car.'  
Sung by Christian Kane from the album 'The House Rules'

Buy the album - it's a corker


	8. Chapter 8

Eliot let his head drop back onto the rucksack and closed his eyes. He was deathly tired, hurting, and now this. He knew the possibility of infection setting in was more or less unavoidable, but he had hoped for a little longer before it debilitated him.

"Eliot, man, we gotta do somethin' about this. An' _now_ ," Hardison said, worry rife in every syllable.

Parker was busying herself putting on a pot of water to boil on the fire and digging out the Big Damn Medikit. Rummaging through it, she looked desperately – and futilely – for something – _anything_ – that would help with the situation. There was nothing. There were plenty of emergency supplies - bandages, wound dressings, gauze and antiseptic - but not a damned antibiotic in sight.

Eliot turned his head, opened his eyes and watched her, even as she slammed the lid of the medikit shut in frustration. He smiled, knowing what annoyed her.

"Don't carry 'em. Don't wanna even _begin_ to build up resistance to antibiotics by takin' over-the-counter stuff. Not in my job." Eliot sighed. "Anyway, pills wouldn't help much, Parker," he murmured. "This thing's gonna need the crap scrubbed out of it an' then antibiotics via an IV. Which we ain't got. We gotta do this the old-fashioned way."

Hardison looked from Parker to Eliot.

"An' what's that?"

"Exactly what I said," Eliot replied, resignation tempering the irritation in his voice. "Both holes have to be cleaned out, front an' back. We're not gonna get all of the infection, but the cleaner it is, the longer I can maybe stay mobile. Hot water, lots of antiseptic an' spiderwebs."

Hardison gaped.

"Say whaaat? … _Spiderwebs?_ You got a fever? You crazy in that punched-out head of yours?"

"You deaf?" Eliot rasped, now thoroughly annoyed. "Spiderwebs. Natural coagulant … antiseptic an' antibiotic qualities … there'll be lots of 'em 'round here." He allowed the tension to leave his battered frame a little. "An' … an' yeah, I got a fever." He lifted his good hand and made a tiny gap between finger and thumb. "Just a lil' bit."

Hardison thought Eliot almost sounded apologetic. _Almost_.

Parker had re-opened the Big Damn Medikit and was once more laying out supplies, her face thunderous with anger. _Damn_ Eliot Spencer. _Damn_ his friggin' _annoying_ sense of calm. And _damn him_ for putting himself in the way of hurt and danger and … and … her mental ire sputtered, even as she glanced over at Eliot, seeing the sheen of sweat on his skin, the tremble in his body and the haunted look in his eyes.

"Idiot," she swore under her breath.

Eliot made out he hadn't heard her, but the epithet curved his lips into a tiny smile. _That's my girl_. He returned to Hardison.

"Spiderwebs. Go. An' make sure they're either new, or clean with no bugs in 'em."

The resulting bluster cheered Eliot up no end.

"Bugs? Man, I _don't do bugs!_ You _know_ that! Parker, c'n you do – "

Parker was having none of it.

"Nope. I'm taking care of Eliot. And _I'm_ the one doing the scrubbing, so you have a choice of either lots of blood and ick or collecting non-buggy spiderwebs. It's your call."

Hardison wiped a big hand over his face and took a deep, deep breath.

He noted Eliot had a very tired but shit-eating grin on his face.

"'kay. I can do this. Spiderwebs." He reached over to Parker and snaffled a pair of nitrile gloves. "How many?"

"As many as you can get. An' roll 'em into balls. We gotta push 'em into the wounds when everything's cleaned out." Eliot's voice was beginning to fade a little.

Hardison's stomach roiled. He thought he might just barf.

"Jeez, Eliot. How the hell do you _know_ this stuff?"

"Yeah, well, they conceal information like that in books." Eliot muttered. "You don't get the chance to check google when you're up to your ass in alligators in a swamp, an' the only entertainment you got in between times is a book."

"About _spiders_? _Seriously?_ "

"Ya never know when you're gonna end up in a cave full of poisonous spiders, Hardison." Eliot coughed, and continued. "Gotta know how to handle the little bastards."

Hardison shook his head admiringly, despite himself.

"Who'd a-thunk it?" he said. "Eliot Spencer. Renaissance Man."

Eliot laid his head back again, trying to handle the dizziness, and chuckled.

"Well, if the name fits …"

"So does Mister Punchy. Don't get cocky, man." Hardison grimaced. "Anyhoo … spiders." He shuddered. "This is gonna be just _all_ kinds 'a nasty."

And grabbing a torch from his rucksack he began to work his way down the wall of the overhang, muttering to himself.

Eliot hazily watched him go, and then turned his attention to Parker, who was busy pouring boiling water into a plastic bowl and adding a generous dab of topical antiseptic ointment to melt into the fluid.

"You gonna be okay doin' this?" he asked quietly.

Parker's face twisted into sullen anger, hands waving in agitation.

"No! No I'm not! You're really sick, Eliot, and this is all my fault, and it's because you put yourself in the way and got hurt saving me, and … and …"

Eliot caught one of her gesticulating hands in his, and held it gently.

" … and if I hadn't, sweetheart, it'd be you lyin' here instead of me. Or, more probably, we'd have buried you next to James up there on the mountain. It's better this way."

Hot, angry, teary eyes glared at him.

"No! No, it's not _better!_ Or _okay!_ Or the _right thing!_ Or any of the other excuses you give for always taking the pain!"

"It's my job, Parker." Eliot said softly. "It's what I do." He squeezed her hand in reassurance.

Parker finally exploded, the tension finally tipping her into fury.

"No, Eliot. It's _not_ your job," she ranted, "not anymore. Being part of a family isn't a _job_. And you _are_ family, no matter how hard you pretend you don't belong. Because you _do_. _We_ wouldn't be _us_ without you." Parker struggled to find the words. "I _like_ having a little brother who hates falling off tall buildings. I _like_ having Nate an' Sophie there for us when we need them and Nate plotting when he shouldn't and Sophie being all understanding and clever. And I _really like_ having a big brother who growls and sings and hits people who try to hurt us and cooks me food I can actually _eat_. _That is not a job, Eliot._ And if we lost you it would hurt more than anything. _So let us care about you_. Alright?"

She stopped her tirade as suddenly as it began. She shrugged and then wiped tears from her eyes with the heel of her free hand.

"That's all I got."

Eliot, stunned, just nodded.

"Okay. I gotcha. _Little sister_."

Parker smiled through bleary, red eyes.

"That's more like it, Sparky."

There was a yelp in the distance and then a babble of explanation.

"M'OKAY! JUS' TRIPPED OVER A BRANCH … OR SUMTHIN'… PLENTY OF SPIDERS! JEEZ …"

Parker suddenly broke into shaky laughter, and shook her head. Leaning forward, she kissed Eliot on the forehead and sat back.

"Both of you. _Idiots_."

There was a loud crash in the undergrowth and a stream of curses.

"M'OKAY! FOUND A HOLE! FELL IN IT!" There was a lot of grunting and muttering and then a triumphant little 'Gotcha!' "GOT ANOTHER ONE!"

Eliot scowled.

" _Dammit Hardison!_ " he grumbled. But for once he couldn't hide the hint of affection in his voice.

* * *

What followed was a thoroughly unpleasant hour.

Parker scrubbed and swore and sweated, cleaning filth and blood and foul matter first from the hole in Eliot's back, and doing it all over again with the hole in the front of his shoulder.

Hardison helped as best as he could, with one hand giving Parker swabs and gauze and disposing of the stained material in the fire.

And all the while he held Eliot in his grip, steadying his friend and gauging when the hitter couldn't take the agony anymore and had to take a break for a moment or two.

Eliot just hung on. He lay on his side, wrapped in Hardison's strong grip, and bore the pain. He white-knuckled Hardison's arm with his good hand, and just concentrated on breathing … one agonised, hitching breath after another, and his eyes focused on a tiny recess in the overhang wall where the endless flickering light from the flames of the fire painted moving shadows in the faint hollow.

As Parker dug into the wounds, sweat trickled down his chest and the hollow of his belly, and when she pushed the balled-up spiderwebs into the wounds at the end, he couldn't control a keening groan of pain.

"It's over, El … just relax … it's okay now, it's all done …"

Hardison's chanting string of gentle words echoed in his mind, and his heaving ribcage stuttered as the breath hiked in his lungs. He could feel Parker taping gauze over the wounds and then the warmth of a cloth soaked in hot water washed over his chest, back and side, cleaning up the aftermath of blood and pus. His stomach churned.

"Gonna … gonna puke …"

And Parker held his hair back as he retched into the now-empty plastic bowl, although there was pitifully little in his stomach to bring up. When he had done, Hardison silently washed his face and offered him a cup of water to rinse the bile out of his mouth.

"Better now?" Parker asked solemnly.

Eliot nodded. _Jesus_ , he had a headache.

Parker set about checking the gouge in his side, but Eliot was profoundly pleased when she pronounced it clean and in no danger of infection.

He was done. _So_ done, and he was hurting and feverish and sick, and just _how_ could Parker think he was family when he was such a burden? Yet here both she and Hardison were, cleaning him up, patching up his wounds, carryin' his sorry ass through this wilderness and … and … his eyes closed as Parker wrapped him in a sleeping bag and Hardison lifted his head to cushion it on his shirts. _Why_? How had this crept up on him in the past six years? What would happen now?

He drifted off into a feverish sleep, nauseous, in pain, and very, very confused.

* * *

The rain eased off in the early hours of the morning, and the wind stopped cracking through the supended ground tarp, dropping to a gentle whisper, the fresh scent of recent rain drifting through their little shelter. It was cold, but bearable.

Parker was sound asleep, curled up like a cat next to Eliot, her hand on his good shoulder in case he needed anything through the night.

Hardison slept sitting up, his back flush with the overhang wall.

He suddenly jolted awake, dark eyes blinking open in a second. He pulled the sleeping bag tighter around his shoulders and placed another branch of fallen wood onto the fire. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs, and set water to boil for coffee.

"Thirsty …"

Eliot stirred, and then grunted as he eased into consciousness, his voice croaky in the chill air. He shifted uneasily and moaned as his wounds objected.

"Where … " he asked, "still –"

"Yeah," Hardison kept his voice low so as not to wake Parker, "still in the back of beyond. I'm not gonna ask you how you're doin'. Just one look at your pasty, sickly face tells me all I wanna know. Gonna take your temperature though."

Eliot managed a few mouthfuls of water while Hardison stuck the thermometer in Eliot's ear.

God, that sucked _bigtime_. He _hated_ thermometers.

Hardison waited for the beep and looked at the result.

He winced.

"Hundred an' one point five. _You_ , m'man, have an honest-to-goodness fever."

Eliot nodded groggily.

"Tell me somethin' I don't know."

He shivered.

"Cold."

Hardison nodded.

"Want to get dressed? Parker was goin' to change the dressings again come daylight, an' she didn't want you to have to go through takin' your shirts on an' off. But we can strap your arm up outside your clothes if ya want. Won't be quite as good as right next to your body, but … if that would help …"

Eliot nodded and then carefully lifted Parker's hand from his shoulder so that he could sit up without disturbing her.

He felt better once dressed, and he eased himself upright. The effort knocked the breath out of him, but the pain had become sharper yet easier to bear. The sickly dullness of infection had subsided somewhat. Parker had done a good job.

He cocked an eyebrow at Hardison as he sipped a mug of hot coffee.

"There's a place we need to go," he said finally.

Hardison waited for him to continue.

Eliot gazed out of the shelter to the world beyond, the earthy scent of rain-soaked loam filling his nostrils. Daylight was beginning to tinge the horizon and he closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the dawn of a new day.

"When we get to the river … there's an ol' derelict logging mill. There's a dirt road an' what's left of a radio tower an' electrical transmission towers runnin' behind it."

Hardison's eyebrows shot up.

"Now _that_ we can do somethin' with!" he said, sitting straight.

Eliot shook his head.

"Nah. It's not operable. But it means one of us could follow the road out to one of the ranger stations."

" _One_ of us?"

Eliot blinked tiredly.

"Yeah, Hardison, _one_ of us. The mill is dry and warm. It's accessible. I'll be safe there until one of you can get help. You two decide which one goes. Me, I'd say both of ya, but seein' as you two don't seem to think that's _appropriate_ , you figure it out."

Hardison had another idea.

"Eliot, you filed our route with the ranger service, right? Why don't we jus' wait for them to miss us an' they'll come for us?

Eliot savoured his mouthful of coffee before swallowing.

"Because I'll be dead by then. Or pretty damn' close to it." He took a painful breath.

Hardison flinched, horrified, but Eliot pressed on regardless.

"They'll wait at least twenty-four hours over the ETA to make sure we're not just runnin' late an' then they have to organise a search an' findin' us will take time. That'll be around three days from now. If not longer."

Hardison was confused.

"But we got flares, El."

Eliot snorted, and then wished he hadn't.

"Yeah, we do. But they gotta be able to see 'em. This way we increase our chances. Simple." He closed his eyes. He really needed to get some more rest. "Gotta sleep, Hardison. Gimme a couple of hours."

Hardison reached out and squeezed Eliot's good shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from beneath the plaid shirt.

"It's gonna be tough, Eliot. You sure?"

Eliot didn't answer. He was sound asleep.

* * *

As the sun rose on a rain-drenched world, Parker and Hardison packed up the camp, shouldered their rucksacks and got Eliot to his feet.

He was in pain, sick and unsteady, but he lifted his thumb-stick, wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his good arm, and faced the day.

"You ready?" Hardison asked, doubtful. He had no idea where Eliot got the strength to even stand upright.

Eliot narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the day, coughed and nodded.

"Yeah."

Parker glanced at Hardison, and then shrugged.

"C'mon," she muttered. "Let's go."

And with Parker leading the way along the side of the stream, the trio slowly began to wend their way towards the distant river.

* * *

Miles away, by a cave beside a mountain clearing, something moved. Powerful, wickedly-curved claws found a metal spike covered in dried blood and pushed it around, the keen snout scenting the odour of human being. A long tongue licked out, tasting the blood, and a huge, broad head swung around, finding the faint trail of a wounded creature. The enormous, half-starved body rootled about for a moment and then began to slowly follow the trail down the long, broad ridge, the humped, massive shoulders moving easily as the scent of blood wafted almost imperceptibly before it on the air.

The beast was very, very hungry.

To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

The long, shallow valley stretched out before them as Parker slowly made her way alongside the stream, now flowing heavily with brown rain water, tumbling over hidden rocks and debris washed down from higher up the valley by the night's torrential rainfall.

Eliot took every step as it came. He didn't look ahead other than to check where Parker was. He just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He regulated his breathing to coincide with each step, which allowed him to brace himself against the pain, his jaw clenching as his weight shifted.

Hardison walked slowly behind him, hearing a soft grunt in Eliot's chest as he took each step. Eliot stopped occasionally to wipe the perspiration from his face, and then he would keep going. He was dogged, stubborn and just about out on his feet.

After an hour of walking, Eliot finally faltered. A pebble shifted under his boot and he stumbled. But Hardison was there to catch him.

Eliot was dumped onto a nearby rock, and told to rest.

Eliot bitched about it.

Hardison told him to shut up.

Parker asked what the hold-up was.

Eliot and Hardison blamed each other.

And thus the pattern for the day began.

It was during their third stop of the day that Eliot noticed a change around them. He took several swallows of water and slowly ate his way through a pack of pemmican, not because he was hungry, but because he had to. He desperately needed the energy.

"Fog comin' in," he said, as he finished the last bite.

His stomach roiled but he quashed the desire to hurl the food back up again.

Hardison finished a hatful of huckleberries Eliot had pointed out as good eating, and which the hacker had collected in his beanie. They _were_ good eating, he decided, even though they didn't come in a packet.

"This gonna stop us, El?"

Eliot shook his head carefully. A headache was throbbing through every nerve in his head and too much sudden movement made pain spark behind his eyes.

"Nope. We just follow the stream an' we'll hit the loggin' mill. No brainer."

Parker was hunkered down beside Eliot, sucking the last of the fruity grease of a pemmican ball from her fingers. It was like meaty cereal. She eyed up the bag and wondered if she could snaffle another one. Tasty stuff.

"How long now?" she asked. She made it sound like 'are we there yet?'

Eliot closed his eyes to try and let the thundering headache ease. Every pulse of pain shot down into his shoulder and side, which throbbed in tandem. _Goddamit, even his hair hurt._

"Coupla hours, maybe three." He rasped in reply.

Hardison eyed the hitter. Three more hours of this torture and now fog was creeping towards them up the valley, thick, damp and eerie. Within minutes it enveloped them, a sodden, grey mass, reducing visibility and dampening sound.

Eliot hated fog. It limited his ability to protect himself and the others. It affected what Hardison liked to call Eliot's 'Spidey-sense', that innate gut-feeling upon which Eliot could rely to spot weaknesses and gauge possible attack points.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He took another few mouthfuls of water, hoping that the rehydration would help with the headache, because he sure as hell wouldn't be taking another of those friggin' pain pills, no siree.

Another few minutes, and it was time to go. Hardison and Parker swung on their rucksacks, and the hacker was on the point of helping a grouchy Eliot – "leave me alone, Hardison – I can damn well stand up on my own" – to get to his feet, when from the mist swirling around them came an unearthly, ear-splitting scream.

Parker let out a shriek of surprise and swung around, poised to run.

" _Holy shit!"_ yelped Hardison, eyes wide.

The scream came again, eerily close.

"Chill, man," Eliot grumped, although he couldn't help a small smirk appearing on his face.

"What in hell _is_ that?" Hardison said, his voice hoarse with fear.

"It's an elk," Eliot said.

"A … a what?" Parker asked shakily.

Eliot lifted his thumb-stick and getting his feet under him, managed to haul himself upright. The pain sent the now-familiar black spots swimming around the edges of his vision.

"A bull elk. A big deer. With antlers." He explained. Long sentences were too much effort, he decided. "It's the rut. He's bugling. Lettin' everyone know he's up for a fight."

Hardison peered around, but the fog was all-encompassing.

"Well, he can go take his horny, antlery ass someplace else!"

The haunting, eerie scream came again, and the fog soaked up the sound, dulling it.

"Don't worry, Hardison – he's someways away. He won't bother us – he's got other stuff on his mind," Eliot added quietly.

"You sure?" Parker asked, jittery.

"M'sure," Eliot murmured. _Jeez, he really, really wanted to sit down again_. "C'mon. Git. We gotta be someplace, Parker."

Parker shifted the rucksack on her back, and tried not to react when the scream came again.

"Go find ladies," she muttered under her breath. "Go squeak somewhere else." She shuddered.

Eliot was already moving, hurt shoulder hunched, each step placed carefully so as to lessen the impact and hopefully not aggravate his wounded body any more than was necessary.

Hardison heard the grunt of pain. _Jeez, when would this ever stop?_ Then he realised Eliot _couldn't_ stop. If he allowed himself to fall, he would die. Because if he fell, he wouldn't let Hardison and Parker pick him up. Their safety came before his.

 _Stupid sonofabitch_. Didn't he realise that they would pick him up anyway? That they would haul his stubborn, grinchy, macho-bullshit butt upright and they would _carry_ him if they had to. And if Hardison had to punch Eliot's lights out to do so, then so be it. Although he'd probably have to use a rock, or piece of wood or something. Hardison frowned. _Yeah_. That would do it. 'Cause he'd probably break his hand on Eliot's jaw if he _really_ had to punch him.

"You comin', Hardison?" Eliot growled.

"Yeah. Just figurin' out a way to get you back for threatenin' to 'put me to sleep' that time you pushed me over a railin.'" Hardison muttered under his breath.

And shifting the rucksack on his back to a more comfortable position, he set off after Parker and Eliot.

* * *

The afternoon wore on, and the fog didn't lessen. The world contracted to a few feet around them, a wall of greyness and faint shadow. Only the rush of the water beside them helped guide Parker as she picked the easiest ground for Eliot to tackle.

Hardison watched Eliot like a hawk, noting every grunt of pain and shifting of his grip on the thumb-stick as sweat slicked the wood. Eliot's hair lay damply against his forehead, and Hardison knew he was having a real problem controlling the feverish shivering wracking his frame. _Dammit, Eliot! Let us help you!_ But then, Eliot wouldn't be Eliot if he wasn't being as stubborn as a Missouri mule.

But his reverie was interrupted by Parker, who stopped dead in her tracks, hand raised.

"Hardison!"

Hardison heard the nervousness in her voice. Eliot just stood, leaning heavily on his thumb-stick, eyes half-closed.

"Be right back, El. Don't move, 'kay?"

"Hell, I thought I'd try out my tap-dancin' skills," Eliot griped grimly.

 _Smart-ass_.

When Hardison caught up with Parker, she was squinting into the fog ahead of her.

She pointed.

"What's that?"

Hardison stared ahead of him. He could see a very faint shape ahead of him, a great spread of two branch-like objects, with some sort of disjointed mass beside them. The shapes were lying beside the stream, and Hardison could just make out the rill of water where the small torrent tumbled around them.

"I think … I think it's a deer. Or somethin'." He took a couple of steps closer. "Yeah, it's a deer. A _dead_ deer. A _big_ dead deer." He thought about it. "Maybe an elk?"

As Hardison drew closer, he could see that the animal had been dead for some time, and was really nothing but some skin holding together the bones which sprawled in the water. But the head was partially intact. Eyeless sockets stared back at him, and the skull was still partly covered in shredded, rotten skin. The antlers were enormous.

Hardison grimaced in disgust.

But hearing a noise behind him, he turned to see Parker and Eliot coming to a halt beside him, Eliot's eyes checking out the carcass.

"Big ol' bull elk," he said. "Infirm. Probably diseased. Been a few scavengers eatin' him over the past few weeks." But as Eliot studied the animal's neck, his eyes narrowed. He gimped a couple of steps forward, and Hardison couldn't stop himself reaching out for his friend as Eliot came close to the edge of the swollen stream. But Eliot didn't notice. He was too busy looking at the ground around the elk's neck.

Parker noticed his interest.

"What? What is it?" She asked, curious.

Eliot stayed silent as his mind began to make sense of the trampled earth and numerous tracks around the dead animal. He noted the tracks of foxes and a wolverine, but he concentrated his attention on the neck of the elk. The bones were shattered just behind the skull, and beside the skull was the faint outline of a huge paw.

The print was of a front paw with the indents of claw points a full four inches away from the pads. He studied the print and then frowned.

"Hardison … can you pick that up?"

The hacker followed Eliot's gaze to a small tube-like object lying close to the bones, and with a look of distaste on his face, Hardison gingerly lifted the two-inch long object and showed it to Eliot.

Eliot knew exactly what it was.

"Porcupine quill," he said, more to himself than to the others.

"Porcupine?" Hardison said, puzzled. "Didn't know porcupines ate meat."

Eliot frowned.

"They don't. An' there's only this one quill, an' it ain't much of one."

He returned his gaze to the carcass, running practiced eyes over the bones, some still with ragged scraps of flesh attached. The beast would provide food for a little while yet to small predators. Parker peered over his shoulder, squeaked and pointed.

She scooted around Eliot and fiddled with something jammed into the elk's vertebrae. She struggled with it for a moment or two, and then whatever it was suddenly shot free and Parker cackled with triumph. She straightened and showed her prize to Eliot.

It was a tooth. It was over three inches long and yellowed with age, the point worn down with use. The root of the tooth was slit vertically, exposing what was left of the nerve. The owner of the tooth would be in agony.

Hardison stared at it.

"That's a bear." He looked at Eliot, his face set. "Eliot, that's a bear, isn't it?"

Eliot's visage was like stone.

"Eliot? Eliot! Tell me that ain't a grizzly."

Eliot didn't answer.

"You said there weren't any grizzlies out here!"

Eliot turned a bleak smile on the hacker.

"I said there weren't _many_ , Hardison."

"Grizzly bear?" Parker looked startled.

Eliot wiped sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve.

"Yeah. Grizzly. The elk was sick, probably … bear killed it with a blow to the neck … ate the belly an' guts first … broke the tooth chewin' on the shoulder meat." Eliot tried to dampen down the feverish shivering consuming him. "It's an old bear, lookin' at the tooth. Pretty worn. Starvin' most likely. The most dangerous kind."

Hardison couldn't prevent the chill running down his back.

"We in trouble here, El?"

Eliot flinched with a sudden surge of pain. He gritted his teeth.

"Maybe. Maybe not. The elk was killed weeks ago, tracks are old and the bear hasn't been back, so who knows. But we need to get to the mill."

His left leg suddenly gave way and before he knew it he was down on his knees, his thumb-stick falling to the stony ground beside him as he curled into himself, the pain knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Arms reached out and held him, helping him, a hand pressed against his chest and a body at his back, helping him ease over to sit upright.

"Breath, Eliot … easy now … jus' … breath …" Hardison's voice sounded from a distance.

Small hands caressed his face, checking the level of fever and brushing loose hair back from his face.

 _Parker._

The headache was back in full force.

"We … we gotta move …" his voice was full of gravel and pain. "The mill … gotta get to the mill …"

Hardison held Eliot until the tension began to ease in the hitter's body, and then he looked at Parker.

"I can carry him," he whispered. "You lead, I'll follow. We can't be too far away."

Parker chewed her lip, and thought about it. She dropped her rucksack and rummaged in the outer pocket for Eliot's map. She studied it for a moment or two, and then nodded.

"It can't be more than a mile or two away now if I go by where we began this morning. Can you handle Eliot?"

Hardison didn't get a chance to answer.

"I … I can walk –"

Eliot's voice crawled out of his chest, rumbling out of him even as he sagged in Hardison's arms.

"No Eliot. You can't. Hardison's going to help you. We'll get you on your feet when you're ready and we'll get to the mill. And then we'll get you looked-after and we can find somewhere to set off the flares, alright?" Parker was brooking no objection.

Hazy blue eyes studied her.

Eliot realised he was beaten. He had to accept that Hardison and Parker were going to help him, and he was going to let them. _Aw hell_. That was his reputation trashed. Hardison was never going to let him forget this. He sighed, wished he hadn't, and tapped Hardison's hand where it lay on his chest.

"Help me up." He growled.

Hardison grinned.

* * *

It was a tough two hours.

Parker worked her way along the bank of the stream carrying both rucksacks, while Hardison followed behind. He had Eliot's good arm slung over his shoulder, and he used the thumb-stick to keep them both balanced.

They stumbled along, working their way through the heavy fog, with Hardison trying to save Eliot from coping with any more pain than he had to.

Eliot was fading in and out of consciousness, and Hardison was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the hitter upright, so he finally did what he did best - which was irritate the living crap out of Eliot.

"Eliot, man … you gotta lose some weight."

Eliot, eyes hooded and bleary, snarled weakly.

"Screw you, Hardison."

Hardison raised an eyebrow.

"Nice. _Not_. No need for you to go all grumpy on my ass, I'm the one carryin' your slovenly carcass –"

" _Slovenly?_ " Eliot's voice was a whisper, which – if he had been well – would not have boded well for Hardison.

"Yeah. You heard me. Or maybe scruffy would be better." Hardison stumbled a little and righted himself, hearing the whimper of pain from Eliot, a sound the man tamped down by clenching his jaw. "Half-witted, scruffy-lookin' nerf herder." He added testily.

Eliot hissed through his teeth as pain threatened to spiral him down into blackness.

"Nerf herder? What … what the hell is a _nerf herder_?" he ground out. "Is … is that one of your dumb movie things? Huh? _Is it?"_

"Stop goin' all Neanderthal, El … I know you wanna punch something –"

"I wanna punch _you_ ," Eliot snarled.

Hardison ignored Eliot and continued.

" - but you'll just have ta wait. I have to haul your sorry ass outta here –"

" – an when you do, I'm gonna rip off your legs an' beat you to death with 'em –" Eliot was on a roll.

" – yeah, right. Think of somethin' new. That's an Eliot oldie. Boring."

"How about you learn to type with your feet? Cause I'm gonna tear your fingers out at the knuckles –" Eliot feebly tried to support his own weight, failed, and had to rely once more on Hardison to keep him upright.

Hardison snorted in amusement.

"GUYS!"

Parker's yell made Hardison's tart reply die unsaid.

Before them from the gloom loomed an old, clapboard two storey building, wreathed in fog. Hardison suddenly became aware of the roar of a large volume of water, probably the river falling through the race which powered the mill.

"Thank god," he muttered under his breath. _At last_.

The light was fading, and he knew they had to get Eliot inside and tended to before darkness fell.

Parker dug out her torch and walked to the wide entrance in what had been the location of the saw benches, a long, low attachment to the larger building which housed the living quarters of the loggers.

Leading the way through the gloom, Parker led Hardison and Eliot through the decaying shed to a door set into the far wall.

Hardison eased Eliot down on the old framing which had held the sawbenches.

Eliot swayed a little, but managed to right himself. He used his good hand for balance, and he blinked owlishly at Hardison.

"Stay put for a minute, okay. Can you do that?" Hardison asked, worry in every word.

"Jus' watch me," Eliot replied, a wolfish grin working its way through the deathly pallor of his face.

"We'll be right back. Then you can rest."

And leaving Eliot to his own devices for a few minutes, Hardison joined Parker and they eased open the door into the main building.

They found themselves in a big single room, with a couple of large tables and a few chairs, and an old cast iron wood-burning stove with a flue that reached horizontally through the wall to the outside. In the corner were a couple of metal-framed bunk beds with dusty horsehair mattresses.

Hardison looked at the stove. It seemed clean enough. He just hoped the flue was clear.

Parker checked the bunk beds. They were solid and would proffer Eliot at least a modicum of comfort, something for which she was very grateful.

Hardison nodded.

"I'll go get Eliot. Then I'll dig up some wood. There must be some hangin' about here – it's a damn' loggin' mill after all."

"I'll get a sleeping bag on one of the beds. Then we can decide what to do when Eliot's settled." Parker rubbed tiredness from her eyes. "D'you think we're going to have a problem with that bear Eliot was talking about?"

Hardison paused at the door on his way out.

"Don't know. Guess we'll have to wait and find out. Can't do nothin' about it right now anyway."

Parker nodded.

"I'll see how solid this place is."

Hardison left her to it, and went to fetch Eliot.

The hitter was exactly where Hardison had left him, only he now had a decided list to the right, and his head was hanging in weariness. Hardison crouched beside him for a moment.

"Hey, Eliot – how does a real bed with a mattress sound to you?"

Eliot smiled.

"Comfy. Lead me to it." he whispered shakily.

So Hardison hoisted Eliot to his feet, let him steady himself, and then the pair of them made their way inside the mill to the promise of warmth and comfort.

* * *

The huge shape slowly padded its way along the stream, following the faint scent of blood in the dank air. The old grizzly stopped for a moment. The place was familiar. The smell of decayed flesh and bone reached quivering nostrils and he vaguely remembered the carcass of the great elk he had killed several weeks before, the aged animal suffering from arthritis and unable to move fast enough to get out of the bear's way.

The Old One had broken the elk's neck with one blow from his massive, powerful paw, and the bear had fed well, even though the agony from the swollen, suppurating wounds in his face and foreleg from the deeply embedded porcupine quills meant it was difficult for him to eat properly. He had roared in agony as one of his incisors had shattered on the elk's vertebrae, and since then an abcess had formed in the bear's sinus cavity and one side of his head was now a throbbing mass of pain.

There was no food for him here. The elk was no more than a skeleton and scraps. But the blood he could smell was of fresh meat, from something badly wounded. Easy prey.

The Old One scuffed past the remains of the elk, and following the ever-strengthening blood trail, he padded silently into the fog.

To be continued ...


	10. Chapter 10

The gloom of the day deepened and became a cloying, drenched night where the stars were blotted out by the dense fog surrounding the old mill and the valley around it.

But inside, the old cast-iron stove sent warmth and comfort through the big room, the doors left open to let the heat out and dispel the chill. Shadows licked around the walls and both doors, one leading to the saw-bench shed and the other to a short flight of stairs up to a store-room.

Eliot lay on a lower bunk, bundled up in a sleeping bag, propped up on a rucksack so that he could keep an eye on everything around him, an ingrained response that was as natural to him as breathing.

He had feebly demanded that the bunks be turned around so that he had the main door and the two large windows overlooking the river within his radar, although Hardison had told Eliot he was delirious if he thought he could do anything about any breach of their safety.

Hardison sat down beside Eliot on one of the old, battered chairs and offered him some water.

"Here. It might help with the headache. Can you manage, bro, or do you want me to –"

Eliot scrunched up one eye and peered at Hardison with the other. His focus was shot all to hell. His good hand made its way out of the sleeping bag and shakily grasped the canteen mug.

"C'n do it m'self …" he muttered, and drank carefully, trying his best not to spill any water. The fever was wracking him with chills, but he was damned if he was going to let it show. The cold water tasted like nectar.

Hardison studied his best friend. Eliot looked dreadful. His skin was like ivory, stretched thin over gaunt features, and his eyes were bruised with fatigue. He was obviously dehydrated, and Hardison could tell that the hitter was trying not shiver.

Parker had checked his wounds and they did not seem to have worsened, but Eliot had exhausted his formidable strength and stamina. He had no more to give, Hardison knew.

Parker suddenly appeared beside them and sat down on the dusty floor, legs crossed.

"Okay, listen up, fellas! The place is wind and watertight, more or less, and there's a big wooden bar for the main door so we can at least barricade it. The other one just leads upstairs, and there's a big old skylight onto the roof with a lookout platform. The only windows look out over the river. The rear wall overlooks the race for the mill, so we're protected on two sides, at least. Happy now?"

She raised a questioning eyebrow at Eliot.

"It'll do," he grated. "It'll have to. Nothin' much we can do about it."

Hardison looked at Parker, who nodded.

"I'll be heading out in the morning Eliot. Hardison'll stay with you, make sure you don't do something dumb. I'll take both flares."

"Take … take my scope, you might need it," Eliot said, and then coughed, the pain wrenching him forwards, spilling what was left of his water.

Hardison was there in a second, easing the mug out of Eliot's hand and letting him work his way through the moment. When he saw that the pain was easing, he refilled the mug and handed it back to Eliot, who nodded his thanks.

"Just … just head along the road. You got a map, so figure it out. Think the fog's gonna lie for the next day or so …" Eliot ran out of steam. "Hell, you know what you're doin' … jus' … find a way. Can't think straight. Head hurts …"

His eyes were glassy, and Hardison caught the half-filled mug before Eliot let it slip.

Parker reached out and squeezed Eliot's free hand.

"It's okay, Sparky," she said softly. "I got it. I got _you_." She patted Eliot's hand and then unfurled herself, like a cat. "Going to eat now and then sleep. Got a _big_ day tomorrow."

And then she was off, helping herself to fried bacon and pemmican.

Hardison smiled. The girl sure loved that disgusting, greasy stuff. He was still pondering Parker's decidedly weird eating habits when Eliot spoke so softly that Hardison almost didn't catch the words.

" _She's my sister_."

Hardison frowned, confused, and studied Eliot, who had let his head fall back onto the rucksack and closed his eyes.

"Say _what?_ "

Eliot's lips twisted into a wistful smile.

"The scope … my sis gave it to me."

Hardison thought he hadn't heard right.

"Your … sister?"

Since when did Eliot have a sister? And then he remembered Eliot mentioning a nephew at some point, so it made sense he had at least one sibling.

"She … she bought it for me when I was …" Eliot hitched a breath, " … was in the army. You c'n buy these things, Hardison. It ain't rocket science," he added testily, answering Hardison's unspoken question. "I broke my scope … would've waited for weeks for a new one … tol' her in a letter …"

Hardison knew Eliot wasn't in touch with his family. Eliot had told him so once, in a rare moment of openness. He had hesitantly told Hardison about the argument with his father, and the fact Eliot hadn't seen him since he was eighteen and went off to do good in the world by protecting his country. But a sister was something new.

"Ain't seen her in over twelve years," Eliot whispered.

Hardison saw that Eliot was lost in memories, his eyes dark with pain. Not normally a man who could keep his mouth shut, Hardison just sat and waited. He knew Eliot needed to get this said for some reason.

"Kept in touch when I left home. She … she told me how dad was … how he was doin' … she never asked what I did … never told her." Eliot smiled bitterly. "I've never met my nephew. When … when Moreau … _happened_ … I … I stopped writin' … callin' …" Eliot reached out and clutched Hardison's arm." "had … had to keep her safe, y'understand? Keep the boy safe …"

Hardison nodded numbly, and felt Eliot's fingers tighten on his forearm, feverishly reaching out for some kind of understanding.

"I've kept tabs on 'em though. I know … I know they're alright. That he's doin' okay at school." Eliot managed a shallow, rasping breath. "He's a good kid."

Hardison put his hand over Eliot's, letting the man know he understood.

"El … when this is over … why not go home? See your sis. Meet your kin."

Eliot's mouth was a grim line and he shook his head.

"Nah. It … it's too late now. It's for the best. Safer this way."

Hardison frowned, pushing the issue.

"Listen, El –"

But Eliot had let go of Hardison's arm and turned his face away. As far as the hitter was concerned, this conversation was _over_.

Hardison ran his long fingers over his head, scratching impulsively at the shaven curls there, and let out an explosive sigh. He could hear Parker muttering to herself as she helped herself to another pack of pemmican. She obviously hadn't heard Eliot's revelation, or else she would be busy poking Eliot with a sharp little finger and asking highly invasive questions.

He leaned forward and rested a hand on Eliot's good shoulder. He could feel the tremors running through the stocky body.

"Rest easy, m'man. It's cool. Maybe if you feel like it, we can talk some more someday."

There was no answer.

Hardison relaxed back into the old chair and let his eyes wander to the glowing fire in the stove, the shifting colours and welcome heat relaxing him after one helluva day. He thought about Eliot and his shattered family, and he thought about how he might feel if he couldn't see his Nana ever again. After a moment or two, he realised it was a place he _really_ didn't want to visit.

"Damn you, Eliot. _Damn you_ ," he said to himself.

And settling deeper into the chair, he tried to doze.

* * *

Parker was ready to go just before dawn. She unbarred the heavy main door, wandered through the saw mill and looked at the burgeoning day. The fog had settled into a grey mass of dampness, dulling everything and turning the world into a sodden, colourless landscape. Not that Parker could see much of it, even when everything lightened as the sun came up.

She returned to the main building and packed her rucksack, including her new rig and some climbing gear. If she had to spend a night outside, she would sleep in a tree. She left a couple of spare ropes and carabiners in Hardison's rucksack, not wanting to be weighted down.

Hardison had placed Eliot's scope for her on a table, and she packed it carefully away beside the map. She had a compass, and she had food and water. She had purloined a few of Eliot's pemmican balls, and that made her smile. She just _loved_ pemmican. And finally she packed the flares. She needed ready access to them when the time came, so she placed them at the top of her rucksack. She was ready.

Turning, she saw Hardison sprawled in his chair, looking uncomfortable but sound asleep.

Eliot was dozing. He had been awoken by nightmares several times through the night, leaving him disorientated and confused. Parker and Hardison had taken it in turns to settle him, soft words and comfort making their way through his fevered thoughts, and then he had sipped a mouthful or two of the wonderfully cold water, bringing a little clarity to his pain-filled existence.

Parker wondered if she should wake them, but decided against it. They were both worn out, and Eliot was _so_ sick … Parker chewed her lower lip for a second or two. Then she noticed the dirty mirror on the wall.

She grinned suddenly.

Lifting it off the wall she propped it on the table where it could be easily seen and then wrote with her finger in the filmy dust.

That done, she hefted the rucksack onto her back, opened the door to the rest of the world, and was gone.

* * *

Hardison awoke with a start. While asleep he had slid down the chair until the edge of the hard wooden seat was digging into his lower buttocks, and his ass was as numb as all get out, dammit.

He eased himself upwards, and winced. Pins and needles began to work their way through his behind, and his back felt as though it was about to snap in two. He felt something crack.

"Ow," he said loudly.

"Huh?" said Eliot, drowsy and befuddled. "Wasshappenin'?"

Hardison stood up and stretched, muscles protesting at the sudden movement. He felt as though he was ninety years old.

Eliot was stirring, trying to sit upright on the edge of the bunk and failing miserably, his damaged body not wanting to do as it was told. The effort left him gasping.

"Easy, man," Hardison scolded, "wait a sec an' I'll help you up. I can't feel my ass. Dang chair, hard as a board, no respecter of a man's bee-hind …"

He stopped when he noticed something – _someone_ – was missing.

"Parker's gone," he said.

The hitter lifted his head and did a quick Eliot-radar check of the room. Yup. No Parker.

"She left," Hardison said irritably. "An' she left a note."

He lifted the mirror off the table and showed it to Eliot, who squinted and read the words written in the dust.

HEY SPARKY, LOOK AFTER HARDISON. DON'T LET HIM GET EATEN BY A BEAR. SEE YOU SOON, PARKER.

She had finished her name with a stylish little squiggle.

Eliot let loose a soft, raspy chuckle, that low, husky laugh the whole team recognised as Eliot being genuinely amused.

"Har, har," Hardison complained. "Ain't no joke. Damn bear's out there someplace. I jus' know it."

Putting out a hand, Eliot gestured at Hardison.

"Gimmee a hand up, man. 'M tired a' layin' here. Need … need to sit up."

Grumbling, Hardison did as he was asked and helped Eliot out of his sleeping bag and to swing his legs down onto the floor, tipping the hitter upright. It wasn't graceful, and it certainly wasn't painless, but once he was sitting upright, Eliot immediately felt better. A man could only do so much layin' around. _Unless it was with a pretty lady_. But Eliot shook that little thought from his mind, and set himself his next task, which was getting to his feet.

Once again Hardison obliged, still complaining, and although he swayed and was as weak as a kitten, Eliot managed a few shuffling steps.

Thoroughly pleased with his efforts, he slowly lowered himself into one of the chairs by the table, even though he sat down a little too hard and the jolting pain in his shoulder and side made his vision blur for a few seconds.

"Whoa … "

He blinked furiously, dizziness threatening to tip him from the chair.

Hardison caught him before he fell, and finally Eliot felt secure enough to stop gripping the edge of the table so hard the knuckles of his good hand gleamed white. He was shaking with the effort, in pain, and the high fever was knocking him sideways, but he'd made it. He was upright.

Hardison hung onto him for a minute or so, making sure Eliot wasn't going to keel over, but he tentatively let go, realising that Eliot – at least for the moment – was in control of his own body.

"You okay there for a few minutes, man? I gotta go answer the call of nature an' get some more wood for the stove, then we'll eat. Think you can get some food in you?"

Eliot blinked out from beneath a curtain of hair. The effort of just sitting was exhausting him.

"Reckon so. Not hungry, but … "

Hardison shook his head.

"Yeah, El, I know. But you should get somethin' in you."

Elliot nodded wordlessly. He would try.

Pulling on his heavy coat, Hardison headed through the main door and out into the saw mill. The fog had even made its way into the building, and it hung around in whisps. But as he emerged into the outdoors Hardison noticed that the fog was brighter. He looked up and to his surprise he could vaguely see the outline of the sun above. Maybe … maybe the sun would burn the fog off as the day warmed up, and it cheered him. It would hopefully make Parker's mission that little bit easier.

Within minutes he had performed his ablutions, and zipping up his fly and his jacket, he turned and began the walk around the mill to the small pile of logs he had found the night before. He was already tasting the freshly cooked, crisp bacon. His Nana cooked the best bacon in the world, crunchy, tasty, with a hint of smokiness … mmm- _mmm!_

And with all this in mind and with a smile on his face, Hardison turned the corner of the building.

And ran slap-bang into the ass-end of a very large grizzly bear.

To be continued …


	11. Chapter 11

The Old One had happened upon the derelict mill in the early hours of the morning, but the scent of the fire and the unfamiliar presence of the creatures inside had made him hesitant. His highly sensitive nose told him that the wounded animal he was hunting was inside, but the other members of its pack were strong and healthy and no doubt protective of its injured member.

A grizzly bear, like all apex predators, preyed on the weak and sick, separating the prey from its group, picking it off when it had the least chance of being defended. These human creatures, he knew by experience, could be dangerous in a pack. He usually gave humans a wide berth, but hunger and pain drove him beyond all normal caution.

But he was also weary and very thirsty, so he had filled his belly with water from the fast-running and swollen river, and found a hollow in amongst the long-forgotten stack of cut trees one hundred yards or so from the mill. There he had settled, his head aching and his foreleg sending jolts of agony up into his huge, muscled shoulders.

And as he slept, he missed one of the humans leaving the mill and heading along the old dirt road.

Noise woke him - the prey was on the move inside the mill. The clinging fog wrapped around him, deadening scent and making sounds more difficult to pinpoint, so he heaved his enormous bulk up and out of his resting place, and began to investigate. He found it too painful to put his full weight on his injured leg, so he slowly made his way around the mill walls, snuffling and huffing, looking for any small hole or crack in the wooden walls which he could pry apart with his long claws, something he often did when digging out groundhogs or ripping apart rotten trees for larvae.

What he _didn't_ expect was one of the humans coming straight to _him_.

* * *

The bear smelled really, _really_ bad.

For some unholy reason which he couldn't comprehend, that was the only lucid thought in Hardison's brain as he piled into its back end, surprising the grizzly so much it actually tucked its stubby tail down and skittered a few paces ahead before finally turning to look at him as he staggered back a couple of steps, almost knocked off-balance by the impact.

In that split second of clarity before all hell let loose, Hardison saw the deeply embedded quills in the animal's head and leg, he saw the swollen, oozing wounds, and he also saw the backbone sticking out of the loose skin. The bear was thin and starving. And it was going to _eat him_.

Hardison did the only thing his terrified mind could think of – he went _big_.

He took an insanely deep breath, stood straight and tall, and then ran a few steps towards the bear, his arms waving frantically. He let out the loudest, most unintelligible, most ridiculous scream he had uttered in his entire life, and to his profound surprise, the bear actually took a couple of steps backwards, huffing.

For one absurd moment, Hardison thought he'd done it. The bear was going to run away. But it didn't.

It reared up onto its hind legs as though to get a better view, and it let out a chopping growl, which halted Hardison in his tracks. The damn thing must be over seven feet tall.

 _Uh-oh._

Hardison turned and ran.

" _ELIO-O-O-O-O-T!"_ he yelled, even as he remembered that Eliot was in no fit state to stand up, let alone fight a grizzly.

Arms flailing, Hardison ran around the side of the mill, heading as fast as his long legs would carry him to the heavy door leading inside.

He heard a coughing growl behind him and could have sworn he felt the earth shake as the bear dropped again to all fours, before the animal lunged after Hardison's lean frame.

It was the embedded porcupine quills that saved the hacker's life. The spongy, infected muscle in the bear's foreleg wouldn't support his weight properly and the animal stumbled, ploughing headlong into one of the old saw-bench supports. It let out a bawl of pain and frustration, but it was too late – Hardison was through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

* * *

Parker was whistling.

She was setting a brisk pace along the road, eyes constantly checking out the world around her, ears attuned to any strange noise. But in the meantime she was practising her Eliot-whistling. She had always been fascinated by Eliot's whistle, which came from his throat or his tongue or somewhere that wasn't his lips. It always made her laugh, even when he was making gentle fun of her and pretending she was crazy, although they both really knew she wasn't. But that's what brothers did, she decided. But she just couldn't figure out the knack of Eliot's whistling. She didn't care. It was fun trying.

Something large suddenly loomed out of the fog to her left … a great framework of metal, reaching upwards, taller than the trees around it. It was an old electricity transmission tower, its four legs sturdy and broad, girdled about fifteen feet above the ground by rows of barbed wire to protect the structure from vandals trying to climb it.

Although the connecting cables were long gone, Parker knew that there would be another tower a few hundred yards away. And another. And another. They followed the line of the dirt road, and the fact lightened her heart. Transmission towers had a purpose, and that was connection, the ability to make the world smaller and accessible. They _led_ somewhere. And her brothers needed her to save them.

She picked up her pace and forged onward.

* * *

Hardison's scream percolated through to Eliot's consciousness just as he was about to doze off.

"Hardi …" He jerked awake, straightening in the chair despite the pain it caused him. Then came a deep bawl of noise, and the sound of someone running. His blood ran cold, despite the fever sending the suffocating heat of sickness through him.

Bear. That was a friggin' _bear_.

"HARDISON!" he yelled hoarsely, and then the door slammed open and shut before he could even move, and there was Hardison, frantically slotting the heavy wooden bar across the back of the door and settling it firmly in its metal bars.

Something very big impacted on the door, making the whole room shake, dust shivering down from the wooden ceiling and dancing in the still air.

Hardison almost collapsed, but managed to prop himself against the wall beside the door. He was gasping for air and obviously completely terrified.

"BEAR!" he yelled at Eliot, who was levering himself to his feet, swaying, and Hardison pushed away from the wall and reached out for Eliot. "C'MON! _We gotta move!_ "

And before Eliot could move Hardison had slung the hitter's good arm around his shoulder and hoisted him way from the table.

Eliot couldn't control a yelp of pure agony, but even as Hardison began to haul him towards the back door which led to the stairs, he dug his heels in.

"Wait … _Hardison_ , _wait!"_ He grated, trying his best to bring Hardison to a halt. "Hold on a sec! We gotta think, man … _think!_ "

Hardison's eyes were wild.

"Think about _what_ , Eliot? It's a goddam _bear!_ An' I'll tell you now, it is very, _very_ pissed!"

The sound of snuffling began to work its way around the building, and then a powerful paw started to dig and scrape against the wood. Something splintered.

Eliot leaned heavily against Hardison. The sheer effort of just standing upright was taking every ounce of willpower he had left, but he needed to get his foggy and fever-befuddled brain into gear and work the odds.

Straightening, he pulled his arm from Hardison's shoulder and somehow managed to sit down on the edge of the big table.

Hardison's eyes widened even more.

"Ohhh … no … no you don't Eliot! Don't even _go_ there!"

Eliot frowned.

"Don't go … what the hell are you _talkin_ ' about?"

Hardison's mouth became a grim line.

"I ain't leavin' you. You an' me are gettin' outta here together –"

Eliot lost his patience.

"Oh, _shut up_ , Hardison!" he growled weakly. "I need you to be my eyes here … I need you to look for options." He wiped sweat out of his eyes. "I can't even see straight … tell me what we got goin' for us."

Hardison looked at Eliot as though he'd lost his mind. He glanced at the part of the wall where the bear was rooting around trying to find a weak spot. The animal's grunts of effort made his mouth dry with fear.

He blinked and took a deep, deep breath.

"Okay … um … right." He nodded to himself. "Options … well, we can't get out of the building. Bear … mayhem … carnage …" His gestures mimicked the spilling of blood and guts as he moved to the windows. "Can't go thisaway either."

"Why not?" Eliot asked, struggling to keep himself upright.

Hardison swallowed the terror threatening to loosen the scream in his chest.

"The windows are about twenty feet above the river. The only thing beneath us would be a pile of rocks or deep water. Either which way the fall would kill you an' probably me too. An' even if we could lower ourselves down on a rope, we couldn't go anywhere. Lose-lose scenario."

Eliot thought about it.

"How about the roof?"

Hardison frowned, confused.

"What about the roof?"

"It … it's the only option," Eliot said, his brain cells working hard to keep him focused. "We got a door an' stairs as a barrier, an' the lack of space means the bear will have limited movement. We got more of a chance to control the situation."

Hardison shook his head.

"No, Eliot! That means we're stuck, man! We got no place to go!"

Eliot blinked sweat out of his eyes.

"We got nowhere to go if we stay _here_ , Hardison! Other than be a bear Happy Meal, an' I ain't gonna let that happen. That thing weighs … what … six, seven hundred pounds? I doubt the stairs'll take it."

The hacker thought about it for a split second and then realised Eliot was right. They had no choice whatsoever.

"Okay … okay, El. That's what we do. Roof." He grimaced. _God, he HATED roofs._

Decision made, Eliot nodded at the two rucksacks lying on the table.

"What're our assets?" he rasped. He had to put his hand on the table suddenly to stop himself falling over as the world did a tilt to the side. _Jeez, he was dizzy_.

The bear was now working away at the wall of the mill, steadfastly ripping a hole in the fabric of the building. The animal grumbled softly as it worked. The sound of splintering wood made Hardison's skin crawl.

Grabbing the rucksacks, he emptied them both onto the table.

"Okay … here we go …" Hardison began sorting through the pile of clothing and other items and hauled out Parker's ropes and carabiners.

"Yeah … those," Eliot said quietly. "An' the rappel if it's in there. First aid kit, oh, an' the pemmican."

Hardison frowned.

"Pemmican?"

"Yeah," Eliot muttered. "Take the balls and hide 'em where you can in the room. He'll go lookin' for 'em. It'll keep the bastard occupied for a little while an' we can maybe have more time to get outta the way." He shifted painfully. "An' really jam 'em in someplace difficult. Make him work for 'em."

Hardison saw the sense in that. Packing the ropes and medical kit into one of the rucksacks he then worked his way around the room, squashing the pemmican balls in between boards and cracks in the woodwork. The scent would drive the bear nuts looking for the tasty morsels. Or at least Hardison hoped so.

There was a sudden crash as part of the outer wall gave way. The bear growled.

Eliot and Hardison looked at one another.

"C'mon El – time to go, brother!"

Hoisting the rucksack with its precious cargo onto his back, Hardison pulled Eliot's good arm over his shoulder for the second time in minutes and levered the hitter to his feet.

Biting back a cry of pain, Eliot steadied himself and tried to take a step, but his balance was all shot to hell and he stumbled, almost dragging Hardison with him.

"Don't!" Hardison ranted. "I'll lead, man! I can take the weight! Jus' don't try an' help – I can do this!"

Eliot realised the hacker was right – he was holding him back. Hardison could do this. All he needed was for Eliot to trust him, and all Eliot could do was try and put his boots squarely on the ground so he didn't unbalance the tall man. Then he had an idea.

"Use the thumb-stick, Hardison! It'll give you somethin' to balance with."

Hardison looked around and found the thumb-stick leaning against the bunk-beds. He hauled Eliot a few steps forward, grabbed the stick, and used it to steady both Eliot and himself. It worked perfectly, although the stick was a little short for him.

Eliot peered into Hardison's sweat-sheened face.

"Ready?"

"Hell, no!" Hardison griped.

Eliot managed that feral grin that usually sent the bad guys back a step or three.

"Let's git!" he said.

And the pair of them slowly made their way through the back door to the stairway, slamming and barring the door behind them.

As the rear door banged shut, the bear finally tore a hole through the wall and squeezed its way into the empty room.

* * *

Parker was sitting on a large rock at the side of the dirt road, humming to herself. She had finally given up on the whistling, so she was taking a break, eating a ball of pemmican and checking the map. Behind her, one of the huge transmission towers loomed overhead, its rusting bulk disappearing into the fog as it soared towards the sky.

She crunched away on the preserved meat and fruit, and thought about how brilliant it would be if the fog would lift and she could climb one of the towers and actually see the lie of the land, not just a blanket of dank greyness.

She finished her last mouthful and swallowed, sucking the last of the flavour from between her teeth. She frowned and cocked her head to one side. She could hear something odd.

That _noise_ … that funny noise she could hear faintly, as though from a great distance. What _was_ it?

And then she grinned. She remembered the noise from their trip up the mountain in the first place.

It was a helicopter.

* * *

"Up, Eliot … we gotta go _up_ … help me out here, bro," Hardison grouched as he tried his best to haul Eliot up the short length of narrow, steep stairs leading to the makeshift storeroom some eight feet above.

The stairs could not take two abreast, so Hardison had to resort to alternately pulling and lifting Eliot up each step behind him, a procedure which Eliot was finding excruciating.

They could hear the bear grunting and tearing at the wooden walls – obviously the pemmican was working its greasy, meaty magic, and the starving creature was attempting to strip away the planked wall and lick up every delicious morsel.

"We … we near the top yet?" Eliot gasped breathlessly, unable to lift his weary head to take a look.

Hardison grunted, and grabbed Eliot's heavy jacket to heave the hitter up another step.

"'Nother couple," he said grimly. "Providin' that big s-o-b don't decide to come bite our asses."

Eliot bared his teeth at the agony and getting his booted feet under him, tried to help Hardison guide him up the last steps.

His breath was hissing through his teeth and he was just one big, pounding pain, but he didn't stop. Using the last of his strength, Eliot pushed himself forward and both of them fell in a heap through the small door at the top of the stairs and into the small storeroom.

They weren't a moment too soon.

The wooden frame of the door below them gave way, and the bear pushed its way through the gap into the tiny hallway, its nose scenting the air. The huge, flat head swung upwards, and the bear opened its mouth and let out a heavy chuff.

Eliot couldn't move, He was out of steam, his body was one big mass of agony and he was wheezing, trying to drag enough air into his lungs to stop him blacking out. He felt Hardison untangle himself and haul Eliot further back into the room and then turn to shut the door.

There was a tremendous crash as the bear tore the flimsy wooden bannister off the side of the stairway, and the animal reared up onto its hind legs to get a better look at its target.

To Hardison's horror, the grizzly was just tall enough to lunge forward, its open jaws snapping at the hitter's leg. A huge paw hooked upwards through the doorway, and before Hardison could do anything about it, there was a tremendous blow to his chest and he was punched backwards, landing flat on his back, the air driven from his lungs.

Eliot's bleary gaze settled on the hacker, suddenly realising that the bear was on the attack and that Hardison was down.

"Hardison!" he yelled hoarsely, and he noticed the thumb-stick lying on the floor a few feet away. He summoned every bit of energy he had left and reached for the thumb-stick with his good hand, even as he lay on his wounded shoulder to do so. He let out a bellow of agony as he managed to curl his fingers around the shaft, and then the wood felt solid and strong in his grasp and he suddenly felt everything slot into place. The pain receded, and his heartbeat slowed … his nostrils flared and his lungs filled with air, and calm filled his mind.

He deftly rolled onto his belly, and even with his left arm strapped to his side, Eliot was able to use his right elbow to lever himself onto his knees, and the thumb-stick swung forward to help him get to his feet.

It was at that very moment that the bear's hooked claws caught on Hardison's pants leg and began to drag him over the edge of the doorway.

To be continued …


	12. Chapter 12

Hardison was gasping noisily, trying to force air back into his lungs as he lay flat on his back on the storeroom floor, eyes screwed shut. His chest felt as though it had been hit with a bag of bricks and Eliot was apparently trying to pull his leg off. He tried to dislodge the hitter by weakly attempting to pry his limb out of the man's grasp.

"Gerroff …" he coughed, "El … Eliot … leggo …"

He heard a deep growl and felt his body begin to slide jerkily across the floor.

"H-Hey, Mister Growly Grinch …" Hardison began to vaguely wave his arms about, "M'okay … I can move … gimmee a second …"

He felt a hand grab the shoulder of his jacket and pull, and he heard Eliot grunt with effort.

"It … it's not _me_ , you _idiot_ … it's the goddamn _bear_!"

Hardison's eyes shot open. Lifting his head, he looked down his sprawling body to his leg. He saw with absolute clarity two long, curved claws hooked through the material of his pants leg – and those claws were attached to a big paw which in turn was attached to the bear, now trying to scrabble up onto the storeroom floor through the open doorway.

"AAARRRGGGHHHH!" he bawled, and ignoring the pain in his chest, Hardison wrenched his leg away from the bear with every ounce of strength he had, and the sound of ripping material was music to his ears. In a split second he was scrabbling frantically backwards and then Eliot was in front of him, rising onto his knees, right arm raised and the thumb-stick twirling lethally in his fingers.

The hacker watched, terrified but mesmerised, as Eliot snapped the thumb-stick forward and the v-shaped grip slammed wickedly against the side of the bear's head.

The animal let out an agonized roar and it retreated, shaking its head and pawing at the re-opened suppurating wounds in its face.

Reversing the swing on the thumb-stick, Eliot used it to catch the edge of the door and slam it shut.

The thumb-stick fell from now-nerveless fingers and Eliot sagged forward on his knees to prop himself on his good hand, his mane of hair framing his face as his head hung in exhaustion, the adrenaline rush fading at an alarming rate. For long moments all that could be heard was heavy, sobbing breaths from both men and the bear crashing about in the room below, angered by the pain of its injuries.

But slowly Hardison and Eliot got their breathing under control, and the hacker sat up, wincing as the bruised muscles of his chest objected to the movement.

"Ow," he said matter-of-factly, and fearfully searched his torso for blood. _Not a drop_. His leg seemed intact, and in the end all he had to show for a full-blown bear attack were some bruised chest muscles and a ruined pair of denims.

He collapsed back on the floor, boneless with relief. He turned his head to look at Eliot, who was still on his knees and held up by his one good arm, ribs heaving with the effort of doing his ninja thing on a grizzly bear.

"You okay, Eliot?" Now that his muscles weren't turning to jelly, Hardison levered himself upright and reached out to touch the man's uninjured shoulder, which ended up being the wrong thing to do. Eliot's meagre strength gave out and he began to slump sideways.

Hardison caught him just in time. "Whoa, El … easy now … I gotcha …" And shifting his grip he held Eliot carefully, allowing the hitter to relax back against Hardison's chest.

"Do I _look_ as though I'm okay?" Eliot grumbled, his breath harsh in his throat. He coughed, the effort of speaking and breathing at the same time becoming too much for his lungs to cope with. The feverish heat radiating from him was fearsome.

"Man, Eliot … how the hell did you _do_ that? Wait … y'know what? Don't answer that," Hardison muttered, "You jus' rest easy a minute, 'cause we just pissed off a _grizzly bear_ , an' it's gonna come after us, so we gotta move as soon as you're able, bro."

A croaky laugh answered him.

"You just keep thinkin' Butch … that's what you're good at," Eliot murmured, shifting painfully in Hardison's arms.

Hardison frowned. "Wait – did you just make a movie reference? Eliot, did you just quote 'Butch Cassidy an' the Sundance Kid'?"

"What? You think I … I don't watch movies?" Eliot whispered, his 'let's-annoy-Hardison' tone oozing from every word. "Hell, I got vision an' the rest of the world wears bifocals."

Hardison shook his head and began to carefully haul Eliot upright.

"Jeez, now you're just creepin' me out." He managed to get to his knees and sling Eliot's arm into its accustomed place around his shoulder, and between them, with Hardison pulling as gently as he could and Eliot getting his legs under him and trying not to drag Hardison down, they made it to their feet.

Eliot glanced around him, and nodded at the rucksack and thumb-stick.

"Stuff," he said, gazing steadily at Hardison who grimaced, unslung Eliot and made sure he was steady on his feet before retrieving the items. Once the rucksack was on his back and he had a firm grip on the thumb-stick, he re-slung Eliot and straightened.

"C'mon crazy, we gotta get up onto the roof. What we're gonna do when we get there I got no idea, but no doubt nut-job ninja Eliot Spencer has _big_ plans an' … an' …" Hardison sighed. "Oh, what the hell. Let's go."

"Hey man …" Eliot whispered, and Hardison swore he could hear the slightly-delirious-and-out-of-it amusement in his friend's voice, "I'm not crazy. I'm just colourful …"

"God _dammit_ , Eliot! Ain't you seen any other movies?"

And the tall hacker and badly damaged and unsteady hitter wove their way across the room to the skylight, while the bear began to tear the stairway into pieces below them.

* * *

The tower stretched above Parker, the spars on its frame criss-crossing in a never-ending pattern of sharp angles and vertical supports. There didn't appear to be many horizontal surfaces on the thing, Parker noted.

No matter. She only had a limited amount of time to do this, so she would climb beyond the fog, use the pencil flare, and alert the authorities that rescue was beyond urgent. There. Simple. Keep-It-Simple-Stupid. The K.I.S.S. method of planning, courtesy of Eliot Spencer, who was a man much in favour of simple but elegant cons. One thing Eliot didn't like was over-complication. There was too much facility for something to screw up and it usually meant he had to go in there and punch someone, which he didn't really mind. Or _be_ punched a lot by the bad guys, which was sometimes a necessity, but he didn't like that so much.

Parker herself was a creature of lineal thought processes, although she could certainly think on her feet – or in a harness – when required. She preferred to plan and time her work, knowing what, when, where and how to a finite degree. So she had taken to Eliot's K.I.S.S. method like a duck to water.

She decided she would climb the tower freestyle. There would be no ropes or harness to snag and confine, and she really didn't have the time to set it all up. She would just go with the flow. The helicopter sounds were still distant, and due to the dampening effect of the fog she couldn't gauge its direction, so she would just have to wing it. She just hoped the tower's height took it beyond the fog.

Stripping off her jacket and stuffing the two pencil flares into the inner pocket of her fleece, she sized up the nearest tower leg. Looking at the rusty, flaking edges, she added her grip gloves to the mix, noting with a shudder the dried bloodstains soaked into the right glove. _Eliot's blood_.

She regretted for a moment not having her climbing shoes with the reinforced toe box and textured sole to give her sensitivity and grip, but her heavy walking boots would have to do.

Slotting herself into the inverted vertex angle of the first, huge triangle in the side of the tower and bracing herself on the leg, Parker began to work her way skywards.

* * *

Trying to get through a skylight two feet wide by three feet tall while carrying a rucksack, thumb-stick and an Eliot was, Hardison realised, thoroughly annoying.

There were five short, wooden steps up to the skylight set into the corrugated iron roof, its gentle slope meaning Hardison had to crouch in order to fumble with the handle on the right side of the frame. He propped the thumb-stick against the steps and it promptly toppled onto the floor. The rucksack caught on the small handrail on the right side of the steps, and Eliot grunted as his head connected with the wooden framing of the skylight.

"Ouch!" he hissed angrily. "Dammit, put me down!"

"Eliot, I can hear the bear –" Hardison glanced nervously behind him where he could hear the grizzly snuffling around the bottom of the door. It wouldn't be long before it figured out how to lever itself upwards using what was left of the stairway, and smash through the flimsy frame to find its way into the storeroom. And then … it didn't bear thinking about, Hardison decided, even though he appreciated the mental pun.

"It ain't in here yet – jus' put me the hell down an' open the skylight!" Eliot snarled weakly.

Hardison dithered for a split second. _Shit_. Eliot was right.

He took a step backwards and lowered Eliot to the floor where the hitter collapsed, cross-legged, against the rucksack Hardison placed behind him. Eliot scowled up at him. Hardison frowned back. Eliot looked like death warmed up.

" _What?_ " Hardison said waspishly.

Eliot jabbed an angry finger at Hardison, and then at the skylight.

" _Open the goddamn skylight!_ "

Hardison twitched.

"Oh … oh yeah," he mumbled, embarrassed, as Eliot had an exasperated mutter to himself.

He reached out and turned the handle, and to his surprise the skylight opened easily, if a little creakily. Hinged at the left side, it led to the wide open expanse of the gently sloping roof, the corrugated iron festooned with moss and rotting leaves. It looked as slippery as hell.

"Get me up there," Eliot groused.

Hardison waved a cautionary hand at Eliot for a moment.

"Hang on, dude – gonna have a quick look, an' then I'll lift your bad-tempered behind, okay?"

Eliot closed his eyes, mainly because it was a struggle to keep them open.

"So hurry up, will ya?"

Hardison clambered out onto the roof. Considering how many times he had been on the top of high buildings – and been _pushed off_ high buildings – he couldn't stop a sudden rush of vertigo. It was probably the slope of the roof and there being no barrier between himself and the rocks and river below that did it, he decided, and the slick surface of the sheets of corrugated metal didn't help.

He turned gingerly and saw the outline of the lookout platform Parker had mentioned, ethereal in the thick fog. It was nothing more than a square of planks with a waist-high, simple railing on a wooden base, set halfway down the incline of the roof so that someone could walk along the roofline and step easily down onto the platform. He had no idea why the mill would need a lookout station, although Hardison could guess it was probably to spot forest fires. He shrugged. It didn't matter. It was a flat, safe area on a dangerous incline, and that was all he needed to know.

He scrambled back inside the storeroom and found Eliot listening to the splintering of wood in the small hallway below them. The bear seemed to be having a hissy-fit at the stairway.

"He's workin' himself up," Eliot whispered. "Won't be long 'till he has another go at the door."

"Yeah, well, we're movin'." Hardison lifted the thumb-stick and pushed it outside onto the roof and then he crouched down to lift Eliot.

"'Bout time," Eliot said and lifted his good arm so that Hardison could heave him onto his feet. The hacker caught him under the arm and tried to be as gentle as he could in easing Eliot upright, but had to give him a second or two to let the pain ease and the blackness recede. Eliot hitched an eyebrow at Hardison. "M' ready. Let's go."

The rucksack headed to the same place as the thumb-stick, and then Hardison spent a very frustrating few minutes levering Eliot out of the skylight. It was difficult to figure out how to pull Eliot through the two-foot-wide gap without hurting him, and it meant a lot of swearing, constant pulling on bits of Eliot's now-battered jacket and several pained yelps of "Dammit, Hardison!" But Eliot was finally finagled onto the sloping roof, and Hardison slammed the skylight shut. There was no lock.

The hacker wasted no time in half-carrying, half dragging Eliot across the treacherous roof to the lookout platform, the hitter now almost a dead weight in Hardison's arms. But reach the platform they did, and Eliot lay panting on his uninjured side, his breath hitching as he rode through the agony. But he didn't have time to feel sorry for himself.

"Rope … get the rope …" he gasped, "tie it onto the framework an' attach the rappel …"

Hardison, who was busy watching the skylight like a hawk, glanced at his best friend suspiciously.

"What? Why?"

Eliot scowled.

"Just _do it_ , Hardison! Don't argue! An' … an' when you've done that, rig up some kinda loop each an' get us set so we can get off this roof if we need to. Just a safety measure, okay?"

Hardison's dark eyes narrowed.

"Don't you even _think_ about it, Eliot! You are _not_ gonna throw me off this roof, y'hear me?"

Eliot gave a ghastly grin, eyes gaunt in his pale face.

"Man, if that bear gets up here and charges us I won't have to!"

A little mollified, Hardison dug out the ropes and carabiners and quickly rigged a belay using the rappel. Then he created a couple of simple body supports from strips of webbing which he attached to the rope with friction knots. Hanging around Parker – often literally – had its uses.

He was distracted for a second or two by a sudden crash from within the mill, and then came a coughing roar followed by wood being smashed by a heavy weight. There was silence for a moment, and then a snuffling sound came from behind the skylight.

"He made it up the stairs," Eliot whispered to himself.

Hardison said nothing, but checked the rope setup and slipped the webbing loops around Eliot and himself, and then made sure the rope was clear and free of tangles.

He was just about to pick up the thumb-stick when Eliot grasped his sleeve with a shaky hand.

"My knife … gimmee my knife …"

"Your knife? What the hell're you gonna do with a knife?" Hardison's voice was pitched high with fear.

Eliot struggled to sit upright, and his legs dangled off the edge of the platform. He rested his head against the railing and closed his eyes for a moment. He was so, _so_ tired …

"Just … let me have my knife, will ya?" The bone-weariness in his voice made Hardison's heart skip a beat with worry.

"Okay … okay … just a sec …"

Hardison lifted Eliot's jacket to reach for the big hunting knife at the hitter's waist … and his hand came away covered in blood that had soaked down from Eliot's shoulder to his waist.

"El …" his voice caught in his throat.

Eliot smiled, eyes still closed.

"Yeah … I know. Been bleedin' for a while. Couldn't stop to do anythin' about it. S'okay though."

"No … no, Eliot, it's _not_ okay." Hardison kept his voice low, and made sure the fury in his heart didn't show. Right now was not the time to tear Eliot a new body orifice. He slid the knife out of its sheath and handed it to Eliot, and then rummaging in the rucksack, pulled out a pressure bandage and slipped it gently past the jacket and shirts to press hard against the already blood-soaked bandages below. He sighed. It would have to do.

Settling down on his knees behind Eliot, he pulled the hitter to him and held him tight, one arm over Eliot's good shoulder and chest to keep up the pressure on the bleeding wound.

Eliot felt the comforting heft of the big knife and the solidity of Hardison at his back, supporting him and making sure he didn't fall. If he was going to die today, he knew at least he wouldn't be alone. But he would do his damnedest to make sure Hardison didn't die alongside him. If he could save Hardison, he could leave this world feeling at peace with himself.

And with the decision made, he settled down to wait.

To be continued …


	13. Chapter 13

Parker climbed quickly and relatively easily up the old tower, although the six-feet-deep band of barbed wire had given her pause for thought. Luckily her heavy boots came into their own, and working her way around the leg of the tower she had used it as a ladder, grasping the leg between the wires with her hands and using the wire itself as the rungs, her boots impervious to the barbs.

Once past that barrier, her way had been clear to swarm up the tower, past the six rows of horizontal struts and on to the two cable supports which adorned the top, making the structure look like a badly-trimmed Christmas tree.

It was as she clambered onto the first support that the fog suddenly began to thin out, and the blue sky beyond brought the blanketed world below into sharp clarity.

Parker hooked a leg around one of the angled steel bars criss-crossing the tower's main structure, and sat astride the support which had once carried the power lines. She could hear the noise of the helicopter more clearly now, and she twisted around, trying to locate the source. Surrounded by mountains, it was difficult to see the helicopter against the vast backdrop of colours and textures of the landscape.

She suddenly realised she had left Eliot's scope in the rucksack at the base of the tower. _Damn_.

She had to go higher. Already over one hundred and fifty feet above the ground, she knew she had to go to the pinnacle of the tower, higher than the next horizontal support, where she could see the full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees with nothing to restrict her vision. It would also mean she had a clear shot with the flare.

Unhooking her leg, she swung herself gracefully to her feet and began to climb.

* * *

"Sit _still_ , dammit!" Hardison grumbled, trying to ease another fresh pressure bandage under the strapping over the entry wound in Eliot's shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but he wasn't taking any chances – Eliot couldn't afford to lose any more of the stuff.

Eliot was trying to bat Hardison's hand away, annoyed at the poking, but the fact he had a large hunting knife in his hand made Hardison more than a little leery. Eliot was in the grips of a high fever now, and wasn't too careful about where he waved the damned knife.

"Leave me alone," he muttered, "Gotta … gotta be ready …"

"Yeah, Eliot … I know … but you'll be no damn' use if you pass out through blood-loss, so let me do this, will ya?"

"Can't … can't _see_ , Hardison! Gotta see it comin'! You're in the _way!_ " And Eliot flinched as Hardison managed to push the bandage into place and tucked the bloodstained shirt and undershirt back over the strapping. "You done now?"

Hardison scowled, but nodded, even though Eliot couldn't see his face.

"Yeah, I'm done." He noticed Eliot had slumped a little, so he pulled him up and back against his chest again, trying to be as careful as he could. Eliot leaned back against him, needing the support more than he would ever admit.

"Thanks, man," he whispered grudgingly.

"You're welcome."

There was a short, polite silence.

Hardison didn't 'do' silence very well.

"Bear might not even try to get out here. You whupped him hard, Eliot. Might just take off," he added hopefully.

He felt Eliot's head-shake against the bruised muscles in his chest as he watched the skylight for any movement.

"Nah, he's comin'," Eliot rumbled. He waggled the old Ka-Bar service knife at his damaged shoulder. "He'll follow the blood. He's old, he's hurtin' an' he's hungry. I'm an easy meal." He gave a low rasping chuckle. "So are you."

"Yeah, very funny. But we've been hittin' back. We're not _such_ an easy meal."

Eliot waved the knife at the roof.

"All it takes is one or two drops of blood, Hardison, an' he'll find us. An' he's lost all sense of caution. He's 'way past bein' careful. He's just _hungry_. Our only advantage is he's sick an' lame." Eliot rested his hand with the knife beside him on the wooden platform, as though the weapon was too heavy to lift. " _When_ he comes, we gotta play to that."

Hardison bit his lip.

"You think –"

"Yeah," Eliot interjected. "We don't have long. An' when he comes through that skylight, you get me on my feet, y'hear? I gotta be on my feet."

Hardison stiffened in alarm.

"Why? What're you gonna do? What's goin' on in that teeny-tiny fever-melted brain of yours, Eliot? _What?_ "

"Ever heard of the Tyrolean Sasquatch Con?"

"Huh? _No!_ You don't get sasquatch in the alps, Eliot! Are you … are you _messin'_ with me?"

Eliot ignored him.

"Well … this is gonna be a bit like that … but … but without the yodelling," he explained cryptically.

Hardison opened his mouth but not a word came out because the skylight door moved, bowed under some massive internal pressure, and then splintered as a huge, broad, shaggy head with a bloodstained snout pushed through it and turned to look at them.

* * *

Parker was beginning to tire. She worked her way around the second support, and began the ascent of the final peak of the tower, one-hundred-and-eighty feet above ground level. The wind at this height was becoming stronger and she was beginning to freeze, her fingers stiff with cold. She looked up. Another twenty feet or so to go, and the sound of the helicopter was louder, brought to her on the wind.

Glancing around, she suddenly spotted movement. The distant helicopter was small, white, and _not_ heading in her direction. There was no more time – she had to set off the flare before the helicopter passed her by, and it was easily a good five miles away. With the wind shear she would have to angle the flare well ahead of the helicopter's flight into the mountains to the west.

Threading her legs around the steel cross-braces, she jammed her booted feet into the angles and leaning back, she let go of the tower. Slipping her right hand into her fleece pocket, and positioned at a ninety-degree angle to the tower, she pulled out one of the flares and concentrated on making sure the helicopter pilot saw the orange burst. Eliot and Hardison's lives depended on it.

* * *

"Up! Get me up! Gotta … gotta be on my feet!" Eliot grated, and Hardison, not taking his eyes off the bear pushing its way through the skylight and shattering the frame with its bulk, scrambled to his feet and hooked an arm under Eliot's, hoisting him unceremoniously upright.

Eliot wobbled dangerously, but Hardison caught hold of his jacket and steadied him. The hitter braced himself, sweat making the bound leather grip of the knife handle slick and damp.

Hardison shrugged the rucksack onto his back and then lifted the thumb-stick, the only defence he had. He felt the drag of the doubled rope at his side, and he looped it over his arm so that he had it within reach. He just hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

The bear hauled its massive frame through the remnants of the skylight, its head bloody and swollen. As its rear end cleared the skylight, the grizzly's front paws suddenly slid on the befouled corrugated metal, and the beast scrabbled backwards, the long claws clicking desperately as the animal struggled to find its balance.

Hardison could hear Eliot speaking, his voice low and urgent.

"Come on, you bastard … take a chance … come get us … that's right … slide right over the edge, you sonofabitch …"

But the bear managed to right itself and heaved its heavy frame up and over the skylight and up, up onto the roof line. Finding firmer footing, the animal rumbled a deep growl and then let out a yawling, throaty roar. As its lips pulled back, Hardison noticed the rotten stump of the broken incisor.

" _Jesus_ ," he breathed. He was shaking.

"Stand still!" Eliot urged, "No sudden moves!"

"Seriously, Eliot? _Seriously?!"_ Hardison's eyes were round with terror.

The bear took a few hesitant steps towards them, balancing awkwardly on the narrow apex of the roof, and the weak, injured leg gave way, but the bear managed to keep its balance.

Eliot turned slightly and glanced at Hardison.

"He's gonna charge," he said calmly, his voice as steady as a rock.

" _Charge?_ Waddya mean, _charge?_ How do you – "

The bear half-reared up onto its back legs and then it launched itself down the roof straight towards them, slipping and sliding in a barely controlled charge, and then everything slowed and became telescoped into a place that was all bear and blood and noise and Hardison heard Eliot yell, a wild, joyous yell that was all heart and soul and all things Eliot -

" _YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOTHERFU –_ "

And then they were both punched sideways, crashing through the rail around the platform with Eliot twisting wildly, the knife driving straight and true into the place between the bear's shoulder and neck and severing the great artery that lay there.

Hardison hung on, the rank, fetid stench of the bear overpowering him and making his head reel, and then he realised that they were sliding in a tangle of arms and legs and grizzly bear over the edge of the roof.

In a world of snapping, frothy jaws and a glimpse of Eliot's face, raw and mad and eyes blazing with a wild ecstasy Hardison thought he would never see again in this lifetime, the hacker dropped the thumb-stick and grabbed for the rope around his arm and then they fell, tumbling through the air towards the rocks below.

* * *

Parker squinted at the helicopter and then swung her body to take advantage of the angle. Her breath was hissing through her chattering teeth and she could barely feel her fingers, but she pulled the caps off either end of the flare, removed the safety pin, aimed the flare as far ahead of the helicopter as she could, and pressed the trigger.

* * *

They were falling into a blur of ground and water and fog, and Hardison let go of Eliot, hoping upon hope that the webbing loops would hold them both. He saw Eliot, right arm soaked in blood, jerk as the knife was wrenched from his hand as the bear fell away from them.

The doubled rope was the only thing that mattered now … it was the only way to stop them falling and smashing onto the rocks below, and then he was pulling the rope and the rappel device kicked in, slowing them, but he pulled too hard and their fall stopped so suddenly Eliot grunted with pain and they began to swing sideways.

The wall of the mill rushed towards them and Hardison, without thinking, desperately twisted his body around and smashed into the wall, his back taking the brunt of it and cushioning Eliot's wounded body as it slammed into him.

Hardison yelled in agony as he felt something 'give' in his side and he knew, was _absolutely certain_ , that he had broken a rib or two. He couldn't breath and Eliot was just hanging there, limp and boneless, and both of them swung in the sudden quiet with nothing but the creak of the rope and the sound of rushing water to reassure Hardison that he was still alive.

The pain in his side wasn't going away, but Hardison somehow managed to suck some much needed air into his lungs and his heart no longer felt as though it was going to leap out of his mouth. He had to get both of them down onto the rocks and get Eliot to safety. But where was the bear?

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Hardison peered downwards through the grey fog. The bear lay sprawled on its side on the rocks, but its front legs and head lay in the water foaming along the edge of the river. An ever-growing red stain began to drift down the river from its head and into the gloom. The animal didn't move.

Hardison closed his eyes for a moment and leaned his head against the taut rope, the relief almost making him dizzy. But the moment passed. He had Eliot to look after.

He slowly rappelled down the drop, Eliot hanging unconscious beside him, and within a minute he was standing precariously on a boulder, the fast-flowing river beside him and the mill towering above him with water falling through the race and tumbling back into the river.

Hardison managed to ease Eliot down beside him and laid him flat, the hitter's legs dangling over the water below. Hardison carefully unhitched them both from the rope, and keeping his elbow tight against his left side to save his ribs from too much strain, he gently tugged Eliot further up the huge rock to safety.

"Okay El … let's check you out, bro …"

He was surprised and highly relieved to see that Eliot had in fact come through the ordeal with no further injury other than a few scratches on his face, and the blood drenching his arm belonged to the bear, not Eliot. His wounds were untouched, and he wasn't bleeding.

Hardison shook his head in wonder. Damn, but Eliot was one tough _hombre_.

Pulling up his jacket, shirt and undershirt he checked out his own injuries. His side was one massive bruise, already swelling, and pressing gently he knew for certain he had a couple of broken ribs. But even though it hurt to breath, his lung on his left side didn't seem to be damaged.

"Bear …" A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

Hardison saw Eliot's eyelids flicker and open, and hazy blue eyes gazed at him. He smiled.

"Dead. Don't know if it was your knife or the fall that killed it, but hey … I ain't complainin'."

Eliot nodded then winced.

"Where …"

"We're on the rocks by the river." Hardison knelt and gently lifted Eliot's head, placing the rucksack beneath it to serve as a pillow. "We fell off the _damn roof!_ "

Eliot managed a weary smile.

"Leastways it wasn't me that pushed ya this time." He studied Hardison for a moment. "You okay, man?"

Hardison grimaced.

"I think I got a couple of broken ribs, but otherwise … I'm not too bad."

Eliot's smile turned smug.

"Hey … happens to me all the time. Suck it up."

Hardison snorted, amused. Then he sobered.

"Eliot … I can't move you, bro. It's a bit of a climb back up sheer rocks to the mill, an' I can't carry you. I'm bust up. So we're stuck here until help comes. Sorry, man."

Eliot closed his eyes and nodded.

"That's okay. Wasn't plannin' on movin' any time soon. We can wait." He was silent for a moment or two, thinking. "Can you get my knife for me?"

Hardison glanced at the carcass of the bear. He really didn't want to go near it.

"Sure," he said.

Easing his sore body to its feet, he picked his way over the rocks to the bear. It lay on its side and Hardison studied the damaged head, the swollen infection and the porcupine quills still embedded in the flesh. The foreleg was a rotting lump of soapy muscle. The poor bastard must have been in agony. At least now the beast was out if its misery.

Hardison spotted the knife embedded in the animal's neck, and gingerly grasped it by its bloodied handle, working it free. Wiping the blade clean on the bear's scraggy pelt, he returned to his friend and slid the knife back into its sheath at Eliot's belt. Eliot didn't respond.

Easing himself down to sit beside the wounded hitter, Hardison leaned back on a rock, closed his eyes, and settled down to wait.

To be continued


	14. Chapter 14

The flare arced into the sky, the orange glow reflecting dully against the blanket of fog far below. For nearly a thousand feet it went, and then the tiny parachute that held it aloft was employed for the forty seconds during which the flare shone bright.

Parker eased herself upright and clung onto the tower, watching the flare and then the helicopter, heart in her mouth even as she shook with the cold.

"See it …" she whispered, "go on, see it … see it … _see it_ …"

The flare shone for another few seconds and then sputtered and went out, leaving a wisp of smoke as a trail and then … nothing.

Parker's eyes turned desperately to the helicopter. It never wavered, and continued its course, unheeding.

" _No, no, no, no_ …" she muttered, the wind and the desolation in her heart making the tears run down her cheeks. Fumbling in her pocket, she brought out the second flare … the _last_ flare … and with fingers almost too numb to bend, she went through the same process of removing the caps and the safety pin, and forced herself to stay calm.

Studying the helicopter's path through watery eyes, she swung sideways, trying to gauge the angle. Deciding she needed to reach out a little further from the tower, she held the flare in her right hand and grasped the tower leg with her left. She then untangled her feet from the angles of the cross-braces and eased herself away from the tower by standing up and jamming her left boot into the space between a cross-brace and an upright. Resting her right boot on the tower leg, she leaned out sideways as far as she could go, held in place entirely by her left foot. If it slipped, she knew, she would fall nearly one hundred and eighty feet to the ground.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she swung forward so the wind was behind her. Perhaps, she hoped, a back-wind would help. She spotted the helicopter and moved forward again, just for a couple of inches, and aimed ahead of its flight path. Forcing her fingers to work through the joint-numbing cold, she finally managed to pull the trigger.

* * *

"I … I'm cold."

The soft words stirred Hardison from his light doze and he grunted as his ribs objected to the movement. He reminded himself never to rattle Eliot's cage again when his ribs were damaged. Damn, but that hurt! It felt like a thousand needles were being jammed into every nerve. He eased himself to a full sitting position from his slump against the rock and carefully leaned over his friend.

"Hey, Eliot … how's it goin', bro?"

Eliot was shaking with chills, and he turned fever-dimmed eyes to Hardison.

"F-freezin' … why … why'm I so goddamn cold, Hardison? Can't … can't think straight … fuzzy …"

Hardison frowned and pressed the back of his hand against Eliot's cheek.

"Shit, Eliot … you're burnin' up."

Hardison looked around to see if there was anywhere he could move Eliot so that they both had a little more shelter, but there was nothing. The mill towered twenty feet above them with the mill-race on one side, and to the left was a cut-away edge down to the scatter of rocks tumbling down to the river. There were no trees, shrubs or anything that would proffer some protection. A stiff breeze was beginning to rise and come from the river, dropping the temperature even more. It was becoming very cold indeed.

"Sorry, El … we got no place to go. m'man. I could move us to the wall, that would get us a little further away from the river and cut the wind a little, an' you might feel a bit warmer. Would that help?"

Eliot shook his head.

"Your ribs … you couldn't do it. Not worth it. I'm –"

"- _fine_ , yeah, so you keep sayin'." Hardison looked at Eliot speculatively. "Could _you_ do it with bust ribs?"

Eliot thought about it for a moment, his mind refusing to focus as well as it should.

"Well … yeah, I could. Sure."

"Okay then," Hardison said, nodding. "That's what we do. Unless …" He frowned as a thought hit him.

Eliot squinted at him.

"What?"

"The bear." Hardison gestured at the big, hairy body by the edge of the river. "Y'know, like Han Solo in 'The Empire Strikes Back'. I could cut the bear open an' –"

"What the hell're you talkin' about?" Eliot growled weakly.

"C'mon, Eliot, you've seen the movie! When Han rescues Luke when he's caught by the wampa an' Han cuts open his tauntaun an' pulls all the guts out, an' stuffs Luke inside it an' – " Hardison was warming to his subject.

" _NO!_ I am _not_ bein' shoved inside a dead bear, Hardison!" Eliot tried to raise himself up but didn't make it, collapsing back onto the rucksack with a grunt of pain. " _Jeez_ … sometimes I wonder about you …"

Hardison thought it through. Maybe Eliot was right. He didn't fancy having to gut a bear using only Eliot's knife and pull … well, whatever there was inside a bear … _out,_ and then dispose of it. The bear was half in the river too, so really, he decided, perhaps it wasn't practical. But he would store the idea away for a future time, when Eliot wasn't falling to bits and _he_ could do the gutting.

"Okay then. The wall it is, brother. You ready?"

Eliot, still grossed out by the gutted bear plan, scowled at Hardison.

"Your ribs. Better strap 'em up. It'll … it'll help."

Hardison raised his eyebrows.

"Ya think?"

There was a slow nod from the hitter.

"Trust me … I _know_."

It turned out to be one of the most awkward things Hardison had ever had to do, just through sheer finnickyness. After easing the rucksack out from behind Eliot and laying the hitter flat on the rock, he had rummaged through the Big Damn Medikit and shown Eliot an array of bandages and tape. Eliot had told him which one was best, and then he had packed everything else away and reinstalled it behind his wounded friend.

Holding up his jacket, shirt and undershirt with his chin and winding the adhesive support tape around his ribcage was hard enough, but also dealing with the pain of twisting his torso to do so left him breathless. It took him over half an hour to get everything in place, with Eliot's constant mutter of 'tighter, Hardison … it's gotta be _tighter_ …" putting him on edge, although he knew that Eliot was just trying to make it easier for him in the long run.

But once it was done, he found he could take a deeper breath and he could move a little easier. It didn't feel as though his ribs were going to explode from his side every time he moved, which was a big improvement. _Respect to Eliot_ , he thought, knowing the hitter had done this probably more than a few times in his career as a violent crazy person.

Hardison tucked his shirts back into his pants and zipped up his jacket. He was ready, but he was worried about Eliot. The man couldn't stand – he could barely _move_ – so lifting him was a no-no. Nor could he carry Eliot … his ribs wouldn't allow it. So the only way he could think of was to _drag_ Eliot to the wall.

"El, not gonna lie to you – I gotta drag you. I can't do it any other way."

Eliot was hugging himself with his one good arm, trying to control the chills. He was failing spectacularly, and he turned dull eyes to Hardison.

"Fine … do it. Ten … ten bucks says you can't." His teeth chattered with the cold.

"Make it a rib roast dinner with that gooey French choco-whatsit for dessert an' you're on. You know, the one that gives Parker a 36-hour sugar high," Hardison replied with a grin.

 _Oh god_ , Eliot thought. _Not that_. Parker would be unmanageable.

But he had no choice.

"Done," he muttered, insanely annoyed but unable to do anything about it.

Hardison didn't waste time. He managed to hoist Eliot up and backwards, one arm under Eliot's right shoulder and the other hand grabbed hold of Eliot's jacket collar. Heaving himself backwards, he began to pull.

The next few minutes consisted of Hardison sweating and cursing and trying to work around the agony in his side as he hauled Eliot on his ass across fifteen feet of rock. Eliot did some cursing of his own, dealing with the discomfort and the embarrassment in equal measure.

"Dammit, Hardison … _shit_ … take … take it _easy_ , will ya! _Ow!_ That's my ass you're pullin … pullin' over goddamn _pebbles!_ Ya know what? Jus' … jus' _put me in the friggin' bear!_ "

"Stop bitchin', Eliot! Be grateful I care about your sorry behind!" Hardison's arms felt as though they were being pulled out of their sockets and he could feel his battered ribs shifting, which was downright weird, let alone agonising.

"Well … well it ain't _your_ ass-end bein' scraped raw!"

"What're you whinin' about? No doubt when we get back home …" Hardison paused as he painfully shifted Eliot over the sharp edge of a broken boulder, "you'll have Nurse Gail tend your shredded butt –"

Eliot yelped as the stony edge bit into his hip.

" _SonofafrigginbitchHardison!_ "

"Nearly there … hang on …" Hardison had just about used up all of his available energy, but he managed to finally pull Eliot into a small hollow at the base of the wall, a large boulder beside it affording a little bit of a windbreak.

He dumped Eliot as gently as he could in the hollow and grinned through the pain in his side.

"One rib roast dinner and choco-thingy comin' up. Soon as you're able, bro."

Eliot glared at him, his wounds – and his bruised rump – on fire.

"That's _Chocolat Religieuse_ , you philistine!" he gasped.

"Whatever." Hardison shrugged and then instantly regretted it. Straightening painfully, he retrieved the rucksack and discovered the thumb-stick lying a few feet away, tucked between two boulders. _It might come in useful_ , he thought, and headed back to Eliot.

The hitter was curled onto his uninjured side in the fetal position, trying to draw into himself and subdue the shivering. Hardison dropped carefully to his knees beside him.

"C'mon, El … you gotta sit up. I gotta get you warm."

The wind wasn't quite so bad here by the wall, and the temperature had risen a couple of degrees, but it was still cold. Nevertheless, Hardison struggled out of his jacket, and easing Eliot upright, he slid behind him and arranged his legs to lie on either side of the hitter. He rested his back against the boulder, and draped his jacket over Eliot, tucking it around his wounded torso. Eliot leaned back against Hardison's chest, grateful for the support. Hardison felt as though he had a shivering furnace pressed to his chest.

"Better?" he asked Eliot, whose head now rested on Hardison's shoulder.

"Y-yeah … not … not too bad …"

They sat for a minute or two in silence as Eliot's shivering subsided a little. Then …

"Hey, Hardison …"

Hardison shifted slightly and grunted as his ribs complained.

"Yeah, man? You need somethin'?"

"Nah." Eliot hesitated a moment, and then continued. "Thanks for lookin' out for me an' all that. But …"

"But what?"

"If you ever, _ever_ , mention us sittin' like this to _anyone_ , I will disembowel you with a blunt spoon. _Slowly_."

The chuckle rumbling from Hardison's chest made his ribs ache.

"C'mon, Eliot! Do you honestly think I would do such a thing to you? _Seriously?_ "

The soft snarl when it came made the hacker's grin widen.

"In a _heartbeat_ ," Eliot said.

Hardison burst out laughing.

* * *

Parker eased herself back onto the tower leg and squinted against the cold wind, trying her best to watch the flare as it soared into the distance. This time it held to a straight line, and then the flare burst into a bright, glowing orange, trailing through the air leaving a blinding coloured shimmer behind it.

Her eyes switched to the helicopter.

The strain became interminable. She was _so_ cold, and the muscles in her legs and back were burning with the effort of holding her in place. But she ignored all of it and watched the helicopter in the distance, still heading west into the afternoon sun.

"For god's sake …" she whispered, "Just … just _see_ it …"

And right at that moment, as though the pilot had heard her, the helicopter suddenly banked in a wide arc, heading towards the flare.

Letting out a whoop, Parker almost fell off the tower in surprise and delight.

" _YES!"_ She punched the air and leaned back, the huge drop beneath her, her arms waving. Luckily she managed to hook her other foot around a cross-brace, and she hung there, yelling like a loon.

She was still there long minutes later as the helicopter pilot spotted the strange sight of a young woman hanging by her legs from a transmission tower, blonde hair blowing in the strong wind and grinning like an idiot.

Parker sat up and clung on tight, watching the helicopter like a hawk as it settled into a hover far enough away so as to not knock her from her perch with the downdraft. The rotors were a blur, shadowing the clear bubble that was the cockpit, but she could see clearly that there were two people inside. The pilot was obviously having a little difficulty keeping the helicopter on-station, but the co-pilot was busy talking to someone on the radio and looking at a map.

Parker waved at the machine, and the pilot managed a little side-to-side wobble in acknowledgment. The co-pilot finished his call and peered out of the cockpit at Parker. He gave her a massive thumbs-up, and then the helicopter was on the move, peeling off to the east, back to where it had come from. Back to civilization … back to salvation.

Hugging the tower, Parker thanked it profusely for its help, and then she stirred her weary, frozen limbs into action and began the long climb down.

* * *

Hardison's back was taking the brunt of the cold wind, even though he had a little shelter from the large rock on which he rested. It was a lazy wind, as his Nana would have called it, because it went through you instead of around you. His Nana was a very wise lady. But it also meant that he was very cold indeed.

Eliot shivered under the jacket Hardison had wrapped around him, and once in a while he would utter unintelligible words in a voice so full of anguish that Hardison had to talk to him gently, trying to soothe him through whatever nastiness was rattling its relentless way around Eliot's fevered mind.

He prayed under his breath that Parker was some way towards finding help. He didn't know how long Eliot could last, even with his rock-hard constitution.

Rotating his head to work a crick out of his neck, Hardison dully studied the world around him. The fog had thinned a little, but it still hid most of the landscape, and even though a wind had risen, it showed no immediate signs of shifting the grey wall of mist.

He was about to close his eyes and try to doze when something caught his eye. It was a soft, dissipating orange glow in the sky, miles away and filtering weakly through the fog layer, and it was moving. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it winked out.

Hardison's tired face split into the biggest, toothiest smile of his life.

"Eliot!" He said, shaking the hitter gently.

"Huh?"

Eliot moved weakly, waking from a fever-dream and only half-aware of Hardison's voice.

"Parker did it!" Hardison continued. "She just sent up a flare. That means there must be somebody out there to see it!"

"Yeah?" Eliot croaked, and Hardison heard the relief in his voice.

"Yeah, baby!" Hardison crowed, "That's our girl!"

"Told … told you … she could do it …" Eliot's good hand crept out from beneath the jacket and raised it for a fist bump. "Twenty … twenty pounds a' crazy –"

"-in a five pound bag," Hardison finished, grinning and gently completed the fist bump. "Now all we gotta do is wait."

Eliot marshalled his thoughts as well as he could, and did some calculations.

"Won't be … won't be before nightfall," he murmured softly. "It's gonna get colder, man. You … you should take … take the jacket back."

Hardison's grin faded. It was now late afternoon, and Eliot was right – rescue wouldn't arrive for long hours yet _, if_ there was any kind of rescue _at all_. A flare didn't mean Parker had succeeded in attracting attention to their plight. There were so many variables his blood ran cold just thinking about it.

He lifted Eliot's arm and eased it back under the jacket, making sure the hitter was as warm as he could be under the circumstances.

"Don't worry, bro. I'll live," he said quietly. He thought about their predicament. They had no food, no water other than the silty, brown stuff from the river, and no protection. Their sleeping bags were back in the mill, and there was no way Hardison could get up there to retrieve them.

He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Parker was back sitting on the big rock at the tower base and eating pemmican. Crunching her way through one of the greasy balls, she worked through the probabilities.

The fog was still thick down here at ground level, so she knew that an air rescue helicopter would not be able to land. So, she thought, it made sense that the mountain rescue service would send in a vehicle of some sort to find them.

She turned and looked at the tower, and realized that the helicopter co-pilot would be able to calculate exactly _which_ transmission tower it was, and there was only one access road that she could see on the map – and she was sitting right beside it. Any rescue vehicle would have to drive right past her. And then she could show them exactly where Eliot and Hardison were. Simple.

Finishing the pemmican, she dug out another ball on which to munch. Then huddling herself into the depths of her thick jacket, she settled down to wait.

To be continued …


	15. Chapter 15

The long, dank afternoon wore on, and slowly turned into a dull, starless night. The wind dropped a little, but that just meant the fog became more intense, which brought its own discomforts.

Despite wearing thermal underwear and a heavy insulated shirt, Hardison was shaking with cold, the heavy dampness soaking into the fabric of his clothing and chilling him to the bone.

The only warmth he had in his present situation was heat emanating from the wreck of a man he held to his chest.

Eliot was firmly in the grip of a raging fever. He was restless, drifting in and out of consciousness, and he fell once more into wretched, nightmare-ridden muttering. God only knew what was going on in Eliot's mind to take him to the dreadful places and situations he spoke of, but as the night went on, Eliot's rambling was tearing the heart out of Hardison.

Eliot spoke of children killed by land-mines and the stench of dozens of rotting corpses, dumped carelessly in pits in the shattered remains of African villages. He called out to comrades, blown to pieces in front of him, and snarled as he told Damien Moreau he wouldn't do his dirty work for him any longer. He heard Eliot tell a nameless man that he and his family were simply in the way of Moreau's plans. Hardison didn't even want to think about what Eliot might have done about that, but the voice he heard was not the Eliot he knew. This was a man devoid of _anything_. A man of ice and stone and silence, who would stop at nothing to carry out the orders Moreau had issued with such casual brutality.

So Hardison held him tight, this friend, this _brother_ to whom he owed his life countless times, and did his best to try and ease Eliot back to reality and relieve him a little from the spectre of his past. And as Eliot quietened for a little while and his terrors subsided, Hardison felt the hitter's body relax and his frantic breathing even out, shallow and ragged with illness.

Looking down at Eliot's haunted features, pale in the darkness, Hardison shook his head, feeling helpless and inadequate, unable to help.

"Jeez, Eliot … what the _hell_ did Moreau _do_ to you?" he whispered, his voice shaky with shock. "I'm sorry, El … I'm _so sorry_ … I wish to God there was somethin' I could do make it all go away. But I can't. An' I don't know how to help you –"

"S'okay, man." Eliot's weary but rational voice drifted through the chill air, raw and woozy. His good hand, still stained by the now-dried blood of the bear, crept out from below the jacket covering him and clasped Hardison's arm. "Nothin … nothin' you can do. I … I just gotta live … live with it. It's … it's my burden … I made it … I deal with it." Eliot coughed and gasped at the pain it caused in his shoulder and side. "Won't ever … ever be clean of it, though … so forget it. It … it's done."

Hardison held Eliot as tightly and as gently as he could, as though his presence alone could drive the demons from the hitter.

"Don't stop me from wishin' I could … well … just _fix_ it, bro," he mumbled. He felt Eliot pat him clumsily on the arm, telling him in his own Eliot-ish way that he understood. _God_ , Hardison thought, this trip was going to haunt him for _years_.

The pair of them sat quietly for a few minutes, Eliot shaking with fever and Hardison shivering from the cold, and the hacker shifted to ease the pain in his ribs. There was no way he could sleep as he had to watch out for Eliot, so, for the want of something to do, he began to talk.

"Did I ever tell you 'bout the time I borrowed Nana's car on a Friday night … oh, I'd be 'bout seventeen … an' brought it back empty?"

Hardison waited for a reply, but even though Eliot didn't answer, Hardison knew he was listening. He grinned. _Great_. He had a captive audience. _The best kind_.

"Well, my Nana, y'see, she was workin' three jobs to keep us all fed – there were other foster kids as well as me – an' she needed her car to work. Man, when she found out the car was runnin' on fumes she was _mad_ \- she didn't have much money to refill it an' we'd probably have to go without somethin' or other to pay for it."

"What … what did she do?" Eliot whispered. Normally he had no time for Hardison-babble, but now … now it was fond memories and family and _love_ , none of which Eliot had thought of in nearly twenty years.

Hardison's grin widened, even as he shivered in the freezing night.

"She chased me around the house with a carpet beater." His voice softened with affection. "There's me, nearly six-two an' she's, what, five-foot-nothin' on a good day, and she's scarin' the crap outta me. She's yellin' and throwin' in a cuss-word or two an' I run for it, up the stairs an' out onto the roof. Nana ain't the most agile of folks, an' she couldn't get up there, so I thought I was safe."

He heard Eliot give a soft, pained huff of laughter, and Hardison suddenly knew he had a way to help the hitter be free of the dark memories of his past, even though it would be just for a little while.

"I stayed up there for thirteen hours. Nana went to work, put gas in the car, an' when she came home she never said a word. She jus' cooked up what she could find for dinner, an' called me down as though I'd done nothin' wrong." Hardison smiled ruefully at the memory. "I tell ya, Eliot … spendin' thirteen hours on a roof gives you time to think, an' I did one helluva lot of thinkin' that day. An' what's more, I knew all the time she would never have laid a hand on me. Oh, she'd a' done a whole lot of yellin' and finger-pointin' an' such, but she was never one for whuppin' kids. But I never did it again." He paused for a second. "And I made sure she _always_ had money for gas after that." How he had done that was another story, but Hardison bathed happily in the memories.

"She … she sounds quite … quite a lady, your Nana," Eliot said drowsily.

"Oh, she sure is! An' she's got the best recipe for cathead biscuits you ever tasted." Hardison paused for a moment or two. "Man, Eliot … I wish I had a couple right now. Big, an' fluffy-good an' tasty an' they fill you right up, 'specially on a cold day –"

Hardison stopped in mid-sentence, listening.

He felt Eliot stiffen, suddenly alert despite his seriously compromised condition.

"What?" Eliot's words came sharp and clear through the dark.

Hardison didn't reply, but he stiffly eased himself from behind Eliot, his ribs protesting and his joints aching, and managed to prop Eliot up on the rucksack. Eliot was getting pretty damned annoyed with that rucksack and tried to sit up.

"Help … help me up, Hardison …" he ranted sluggishly.

Hardison put a hand flat on Eliot's chest, just above the strapped arm, "Stay still, Eliot, please. Just … jus' don't move, will ya? Humour me."

Eliot, feeling useless, nodded, even as his fist clenched and unclenched.

Then Hardison staggered to his feet, unsteady for a few seconds, and he had a sudden moment of light-headedness in the chill breeze. But he soon got his bearings and took a few steps away from the wall, his left arm tight against his broken ribs.

He stood, tall and still, listening.

And through the fog and the black-blue of the night, Hardison heard the dull rumble of a vehicle engine.

 _"YES!"_ he hissed, and did a pained little five-second jig, punching the air with his right fist.

"Hardison … what the hell … what the hell is goin' on?"

Eliot's voice rasped from his place by the wall, and Hardison made his way carefully back to the injured hitter. Crouching down beside Eliot, Hardison rested a big hand on Eliot's good shoulder, squeezing gently. His white teeth flashed in a big grin.

"She did it, El! Parker did it! Sounds like a truck or somethin' comin' along the track! She friggin' _did it!_ "

He felt Eliot sag.

"El? El! You okay?"

Eliot heard his voice as though from a distance. _They were safe_. Blood pounded in his ears and he felt as though his chest would burst with the sudden surge of adrenaline. His wounds throbbed and he was having trouble catching his breath. He felt Hardison's hand move from his shoulder to his chest, and the rucksack at his back was replaced by the solidity of his friend's body, supporting him.

"Breath, man … easy now … just breath … help's comin' … it's over …"

Then Hardison's voice faded into nothingness, and Eliot passed out.

* * *

"Mister Stone … Mister Stone, we've got you stabilised and we're going to move you now and take you to the hospital in Wallowa, okay?"

The voice was strange, unknown, fading in from somewhere far away. And why were they calling him Mister Stone? Eliot, rising from the depths of unconsciousness and working his way through the woolly greyness in his mind, was confused. _Mister Stone_ … then he remembered. _Ellis Stone_. His cover ID.

He had the sensation of being lifted and carried, flat on his back, some kind of mask over his face and he was breathing clean, pure oxygen. As he opened his eyes he saw lights and movement and there was too much sensation, a cannula in the hollow of his elbow and he was cold, so cold, his bare chest vulnerable to the night air until someone placed a warm blanket over him.

He squinted, the lights inside … _wherever he was_ … were hurting his eyes and ratcheting up the dreadful headache he had had for the past few days.

"The … the others …" he whispered hoarsely, and then the pain hit him, sharp and all-consuming and he felt a small but strong hand clasp his for a moment before he was settled onto a narrow bed.

"We're fine," Parker said, happiness oozing from every word, "we're in the mountain rescue service ambulance. You're safe."

"Rest, El …"

 _Hardison_.

"Take it easy, now, bro."

But then there was sudden restraint, straps, tightening around his arms and legs and he heard Parker let out a little cry of distress. Eliot began to fight back, teeth pulled back in a snarl, and then Hardison's voice came sharp and strong.

" _DON'T!_ Don't restrain him! Let him go!"

"I'm sorry, Mister White, but we have to –" Another voice which Eliot didn't know, using Hardison's alias. He growled weakly and his body began to shake with stress.

"Please," Parker said, a sob now in her voice, "Let him go! He …" she thought quickly. The truth. Just _tell the truth_ , it was easier to remember. " - he's a veteran … he can't … just don't …"

"It's just to keep him from moving too much, ma'am … he needs to be as still as possible while we drive –"

"We'll keep him still," Parker urged, "so please … just … just take the straps off. He'll be alright. I promise."

Eliot turned his head and saw Parker crouching on the floor of the ambulance beside him and Hardison sitting on the opposite bed. Another medic was checking him out, shining a pen light into each eye in turn, while Hardison was batting him away and focusing his attention on Eliot.

The hitter's muscles were pathetically weak, and he was in terrible pain and confused, unsure why the restraints were in place and he had gut-churning thoughts of waterboarding and other terrible memories and _then_ … they were loosening, falling away from him and his breathing slowed, calmed, Parker's hand tightly moulded around his.

It was fine … _he_ was fine … he was hurt but he would live … and _they_ were safe. Job done. Now … now he could rest.

And with his team beside him, Eliot finally let go and drifted into sleep.

* * *

The big Ford 450 rescue vehicle took what seemed like forever to reach a tarmac road, jolting along the dirt track for hours. Parker sat beside a sleeping Eliot, one hand grasping his bloodstained jacket while the other held his hand, their fingers interlaced.

One of the medics, a big, dark-haired man called Jaime, was sitting beside Hardison trying to make sense of the story the hacker was telling him.

"One of those Vietnam vets? You're kiddin' me! Out here?"

Hardison nodded sagely.

"Yeah, man. It's pretty sad, I gotta tell ya. Then we patched Ellis up an' we all walked outta there an' headed for the mill. Got trailed by that grizzly I showed you."

"And … and you say you pushed it off the _roof_?" Jaime's voice was incredulous.

"No, ' _course_ we didn't! It charged us an' it slid off." He paused for effect. "It took Elio – _Ellis_ an' me with it, though, an' it was a good job we were roped up."

"You went over _with it?"_ Jaime didn't sound as though he quite believed Hardison's explanation, but he sat still, waiting for more.

"Oh, yeah, we did," Hardison continued, trying to be as blasé as he could, "an' Ellis stuck a knife in its neck. That's where all the blood on his sleeve came from."

"Jeez." Jaime shook his head, astonished. "And your wife … she climbed a transmission tower?"

Parker smiled proudly, happy to be 'Alice' once again.

"I exercise," she said smugly.

Jaime looked at the three of them and then exchanged glances with his partner who was checking Eliot's vitals. His partner raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Are you guys the _A-Team_?" Jaime asked, half in jest and half in awe.

A weak, croaky voice came from the bed, muffled by the oxygen mask and dulled by pain medication.

"Hell no," Eliot murmured. "We're _better_."

* * *

The hospital at Wallowa wasn't large by any standards, but it was well-staffed and extremely well-equipped due to its support status for the mountain rescue services in the area.

Eliot was whisked into the emergency room, and despite his growling, threats and general bad behaviour, was promptly ignored and expertly assessed, x-rayed, prepped and sent straight into surgery to clean up the disaster that was his left shoulder.

Hardison filled out forms. He knew the aliases he had set up would hold – Denzel and Alice White, realtors, on a wilderness vacation with Mrs White's elder brother, a construction engineer called Ellis Stone.

He was sore, mentally raw and physically worn out. But even as he waited to be checked out and have his ribs x-rayed, he had plans to put in action.

"Parker …" he hissed quietly.

The little thief was sitting on one of the waiting room chairs, unable to keep still, left leg jumping rhythmically. Her fear for Eliot had her twitchy and unbalanced.

"What?" She was only half listening. She glanced at Hardison, eyes wide with worry. "How long d'you think he'll be in there?" She was watching the doors through which she had seen Eliot wheeled on a gurney surrounded by a virtual squad of medical staff.

Hardison eased himself down beside her and touched her hand, which made Parker start. _God_ , she was jittery.

"Listen … Parker … I need you to go fetch Lucille."

Parker frowned and stared at Hardison.

"But Eliot's in there," she said, gesturing at the double doors.

Hardison realised he had to be very, very patient.

"Yeah, babe … yeah, I know. But it's probably gonna be some time before they'll let us see him, so we can get stuff done that we need to do. Our cell phones are in Lucille, an' we need access to the tech. I can't go – so you go get her. Bring her here to the hospital so we have her close. Okay?"

Parker, reluctant but finally understanding Hardison's reasoning, nodded. The hacker grasped Parker's hand and dropped a set of keys into it. She stared at them as though they were something distasteful. She looked up at Hardison.

"Are we gonna tell Nate and Sophie?"

Hardison's heart lurched.

"I dunno, Parker. I suppose. I … I gotta think about it. Go get Lucille, an' then we might know a bit more about Eliot's condition. Then we can talk about it." He gave Parker a tiny push. "Go on, girl. Git."

Standing up, Parker rested her hand on Hardison's shoulder, patting it firmly.

"You're in charge of Eliot," she instructed. "Look after him. Promise me?"

Hardison nodded solemnly.

"I promise. Scouts honour. Now go get my girl, will ya?" He suddenly remembered with horror who he had asked to do the driving. "Oh, an' don't you dare put any kinda dent, scratch or rip in any bit of her, Parker! Y'hear me? _Not a mark!"_

Parker was already heading for the outer door.

"Don't worry, Hardison! I'm an excellent driver!"

And then she was gone.

Hardison dropped his head in his hands and groaned. Lucille was _doomed_.

To be continued ...


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note:** Wallowa does have a wonderful, state-of-the-art hospital. My version, on the other hand, is purely imaginary. All medical errors are entirely my fault. This chapter, I'm afraid, is pure, tooth-rotting fluff.

* * *

Two hours later, Parker had still not returned from picking up Lucille from the parking lot beside the Bureau of Land Management's helipad. Hardison knew it would take some time, but _two hours?_ He began to seriously worry for Lucille's health.

There was no word on Eliot either. The double doors stayed closed, and other than a sleep-deprived mother herding a whinging child with a tiny plastic dinosaur stuck up her nose and a querulous old man with a mild concussion, there were no other people in the waiting area, other than the odd nurse.

Hardison had discovered he had two broken ribs and one cracked, and he was also mildly dehydrated. The young doctor who had treated him had removed the adhesive support bandage in one fell swoop, and Hardison was enormously relieved Eliot couldn't hear him, because the hitter would have never let him forget that he screamed like a girl.

He was given some painkillers, told to drink plenty of fluids and get some rest, and then he was left to his own devices.

Without his cell phone, Hardison was at a loose end. It was now morning, and looking out of the glass doors he could see the fog had lifted, revealing a bright, sunny day. A staff shift change came and went, and still nothing. No Parker, no Lucille, and – worryingly – no news on Eliot.

He sighed. There was a rather kitsch landscape artwork on the wall opposite him, brightly coloured and heavily textured. So just for the want of something to do, Hardison began staring at it first with one eye and then the other, playing around with the perspective.

It was in mid-blink that a pair of green-clad legs appeared in front of him. Looking up, he saw a man in surgical scrubs smiling down at him benignly. He was small, slightly-built and in his late fifties, and his hazel eyes were kind.

"Mister White?"

Hardison stood up, wincing as his ribs objected.

"Yeah … yeah, that's me. Ellis – how's he doin'?"

The man held his hand out and Hardison shook it, noting the firm grip.

"Doctor Walt Toller, I'm the trauma surgeon here. Your brother-in-law is in Recovery. His shoulder was a helluva mess, but I think we have a handle on it. The spike was through-and-through, as you know, missed the axillary artery by a hair's breadth, and we won't know how much damage he has to the nerves until he begins to use his arm again, but otherwise – barring complications – he should be okay."

Hardison suddenly felt his legs give way, and he sat down hard, making his ribs object to the impact. He felt faint, but Toller sat down beside him and pushed Hardison's head between his knees.

"Old fashioned, I know," he said, "but it works. Just breath … that's it … there … you'll be okay in a second or two …"

Hardison managed to sit up as the dizziness receded.

"Sorry Doctor …" he swallowed back bile, "it's been a bad few days. He's really gonna be okay?"

Toller nodded.

"We have him on a cocktail of drugs, mainly to tackle the infection and control pain, but I have no doubt that given his somewhat … _grouchy_ … temperament, I doubt he'll stay any longer than he has to. But he'll be out of it for at least a couple of days, and he _should_ be here a few days after that. Where's your wife?"

Hardison smiled tiredly.

"She's gone to pick up our transport – getting fresh clothes, that sort of thing." Hardison kept the information purposefully vague. "She needed something to do while her brother was … well … you know … in surgery." His tone was mild and confused, very much the well-spoken urbanite out of his depth in the big bad wilderness, which wasn't very far from the truth, Hardison thought. "She shouldn't be long." He hoped Lucille was still in one piece.

Toller nodded, understanding.

"When he moves from Recovery into a room on his own, you can see him. I would suggest finding a hotel and getting some rest yourselves. You've had a traumatic time."

Hardison had to agree. He was exhausted.

"Will do, doctor. And … _thank you_. He's a pain in the behind, but he's _our_ pain in the behind - and he's saved our lives more than once in the past few days."

Toller's mouth tic'd, amused. "He sounds like quite a battler. Anyway, my staff will keep you in the loop with how he's progressing." He stood and turned to go, but almost as an afterthought he turned back to Hardison, still sitting rather forlornly on the seat, Eliot's bloodstained and battered jacket on the seat beside him where Parker had left it.

"Mister White … would you and your wife come and see me tomorrow? I need to talk to you about your friend. I have some … _concerns_ … I would like to discuss."

Hardison's mental alarm bells suddenly rang loudly in his head. The doctor had said ' _friend_ ' this time. _Not 'brother-in-law'_. Not much of a slip, Hardison had to admit, and it was probably nothing at all, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise in alarm. And what was wrong with Eliot? What concerns did Toller have about him? But he nevertheless agreed, and set a time later on the following afternoon.

The little doctor excused himself, and Hardison was once more left alone in the waiting area, which was now becoming much busier as the morning went on.

He was still sitting and turning everything Toller had said over and over in his mind when Parker breezed in through the door, looking tired and not a little anxious. She sat down next to Hardison and handed him his cell phone. Hardison had an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss it.

"How's Eliot?" Parker asked as soon as she sat down, her voice shaky with worry. "Is he okay? Is he out of surgery? Is his shoulder better now? When can we see him? Is he –"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!_ " Hardison, feeling much more himself with his cell phone in his hand, raised his other hand and flapped her into silence. "Eliot's gonna be fine. The doc who's been takin' care of him says he's out of surgery an' we can see him as soon as they move him to his own room, okay?" Hardison had to grin. "Doc called him a battler. Never a truer word, huh."

Parker sat wide-eyed for long moments, and then without warning flung herself out of her seat and wrapped herself around Hardison, holding him tight, making his aching ribs creak. All Hardison could do was hold her, feeling her heart hammering in her chest, wild and raw with emotion. This was Parker at her purest, the Parker that the team rarely saw but treasured when they did.

"I'm glad you're both safe," she muttered into his shoulder. Hardison felt her give him an extra-hard squeeze that made him flinch. "You scared me. I don't like being scared." She unwrapped herself and sat back onto her seat, frowning at him. Then she poked Hardison hard on the shoulder. "Don't. _Scare. Me_." The pokes emphasised each word.

"I hear you, mamma." Hardison rubbed the poked place on his shoulder. Parker, with her strong, thievery-hardened hands, had sharp fingers. For a second or two he sympathised with Eliot, the usual recipient of her pokery. He caught Parker's hand in his – the poking had to stop, because there was a Thing he had to do.

"Listen, babe – I gotta call Nate. I gotta call him _now_ , an' have a talk. I hope Lucille is outside? She _is_ outside, right? In one piece? With no dents?"

Parker did a snorky giggle.

"Oh, she's _fine_. I even gave her a hug to say sorry for leaving her so long on her own."

Hardison could relate to that.

"Well, that's good. I'm sure she appreciated it. She out in the parking lot? What took you so long?"

Parker's eyes flicked away from him and the shadowed, haunted look on her face returned.

"Thinking." She whispered.

"You're thinking about what to say? Why? Jus' say it, woman!" Hardison said, confused.

Parker shook her head, irritated.

" _No!_ I was sitting in Lucille. _Thinking_. About _stuff_."

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers – and not realising how much he was channelling Eliot Spencer - Hardison took a deep breath and tried not to even begin figuring out what was going on in Parker's head.

"Oh … okay … don't worry about it …" He levered himself to his feet and gestured towards the rucksack and thumb-stick stored under their seats. "Can you get those? I can't …"

Parker understood immediately and retrieved their stuff, including Eliot's jacket, and then handed Lucille's keys to Hardison, which helped him get his mind back on line. He had his cell phone and Lucille. Now, he could take on the world.

Following Parker outside into a bright, beautiful day, he inhaled, enjoying the cool air, and then he saw his Lucille parked – a little haphazardly – on the far side of the parking lot. She looked _beautiful_.

"See?" Parker waved at Lucille. "She's fine. Told you I was an excellent driver."

Hardison spent a couple of minutes checking Lucille for bumps, lumps and dents, and was relieved to see there were none. He studied her for a moment.

Lucille 4.0, the latest version of Leverage International's field vehicle, was big, an unobtrusive matt silver colour, and very, _very_ comfortable. Hardison had taken the hint about the smell of bodies after long hours of managing cons and had included high-end ventilation throughout, which Sophie had particularly appreciated. Hardison had also taken some tech ideas from the NSA vehicle they had temporarily purloined while foiling a terrorist attack in Washington DC the previous year. Hardison _loved_ this new Lucille.

But right now, he had to make a simple video call.

Once inside he booted up the equipment and called Nate. He could hear Parker behind him, curling up on the single bed that doubled as a seat. She had dragged out a couple of pillows from the storage bin and wrapping herself around Eliot's jacket, had settled down to wait.

"Hardison? Thought you guys were …"

Nate had appeared on the plasma screen, dishevelled and bleary, and had obviously just woken up. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee, using his laptop in the loft kitchen.

Hardison had no time for chat.

"Nate, we got a problem."

A frown furrowed Nate's brow.

"What's up?" Now he was alert.

"Is Sophie there?"

Nate shook his head.

"She's still in bed. D'you want me to go get her?"

"God, no! I need to speak to you first."

Now Nate was worried. Hardison didn't hold back.

"Listen, Nate … Eliot's hurt. He … he's in the local hospital an' I think the surgeon might suspect we ain't who we say we are. We can't make a run for it, not with Eliot laid up the way he is. He can't be moved – well, not yet, anyway. I wanted to speak to you first 'cause I didn't want Sophie upset."

Nate's eye widened with shock for just a moment, taking it all in, and then he understood why Hardison didn't want Sophie stressed out.

Now seven months pregnant, Sophie wasn't having the best time of it, and had been plagued with high blood-pressure from the beginning. She was supposed to be leading a restful relaxed life with as little worry as possible. Knowing that one of her own was badly hurt wasn't going to help.

"How bad is it?" Nate asked.

Hardison heard Parker sniffle behind him.

"Bad enough. He's out of surgery but the doc – a Doctor Walt Toller, I'll check him out when I've cleaned up a bit – wants to talk to us tomorrow about some … and I _quote_ … _concerns_ he has about Eliot. I don't know what he wants to talk about, an' it's worryin' the crap out of Parker and me."

Nate put down his coffee mug and ran his fingers through his dark curls. He came to a decision.

"Okay, we'll be on our way in an hour and you can tell us all about it when we get there. Book hotel rooms for us all, will ya, and make 'em ground level. When Eliot gets out he'll need somewhere easy to access, and knowing him, it'll be sooner rather than later. Send me your location."

"But Sophie –"

"I'll deal with Sophie." Nate took a deep breath. He had to know. "Is Eliot going to be alright?"

Hardison nodded.

"I think so. It's his left shoulder an' side. The Doc says there might be some nerve damage, but basically he'll be fine. But it was frikkin' close, Nate. We'll fill you in later, but it'll be good to see you, I have to admit. I'm too tired to think straight an' we're both too worried about Eliot."

"Are you and Parker –" Nate asked.

"Yeah, we're fine." Hardison was busy researching routes and sending the information to Nate's cell phone.

"No, _you're_ not!" Parker snapped, sitting up and peering around Hardison at Nate. "Hardison's got broken ribs and he got chased by a bear!"

Nate's jaw dropped.

"A bear? Wha' –"

"Never mind, Nate," Hardison interjected, trying to keep to the point. "I've just sent you our location and quickest route. Should take you about six hours, man … it ain't goin' to be a short trip."

"Make it nearer seven if you count Sophie's pee stops. Don't worry – Soph'll be fine. We'll see you soon. And go eat something and get some sleep – you look like hell."

And with that, Nate was gone.

Hardison slumped back in his seat, drained and weary. Food and sleep sounded like heaven. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the grittiness. All it did was make his eyeballs ache. He swung around to see Parker sitting up, still clutching Eliot's jacket. She seemed to be treating the bloodstained thing like a lifeline.

"Look … Parker … Eliot won't want the jacket. It's just a rag now, an' we can't repair it so why not throw it away an' we can go get some breakfast someplace? I'm starvin' an' I would really, _really_ like to take a pain pill."

Parker shook her head.

"Nope. Eliot will need it."

 _Aw hell_. There was no talking to her when she was in this kind of mood. To hell with it. It didn't matter right now, and he was hungry.

"I think we need to go eat, Parker. That's what we do right now. Then find someplace to crash so we can take a shower and maybe get some sleep."

The thought of food cheered Parker up, and she brightened considerably.

"And then we go back and check on Eliot!"

Hardison nodded, resigned.

"Aaaaand … then we go to the hospital and check on Eliot. I promise."

Now much happier, Parker grinned.

"I want pizza for breakfast," she chirped.

Hardison groaned.

* * *

Wallowa wasn't a big town, but it did have some nice bed and breakfast places, and at this time of the year they weren't so busy that rooms weren't reasonably easy to come by.

Hardison chose a comfortable single-storey place with cosy, homely rooms and plenty of hot running water, for which he was extremely grateful. The owner, however, had heard on the small-town grapevine about the astonishing survival feat carried out by three townie visitors, and gushed over both of them. She was very kind, but her touchy-feely sympathy made Parker even more stressed out. By the time Parker had burst into tears and the woman had backed off, embarrassed but nodding her understanding, Hardison wasn't too sure if Parker's tears were feigned or genuine. She was still sniffling when she locked herself in the bathroom of their room and had a long, hot shower.

Eliot's jacket sat on the toilet seat lid until she was finished.

It was while Parker was cleaning up that the texts began. Hardison had to smile. _Sophie_. Keeping an eye on her family.

 _On our way. Rental car._

Hardison had never managed to convince Sophie to use text-speak. She thought the whole thing very vulgar and a breakdown in society's standards, so she spelled everything out as though writing a letter.

A minute later …

 _Bathroom break. Nate complaining._

Then after ten minutes …

 _Nate's driving me bloody well insane._

It was a full two minutes until the next one pinged on his cell phone.

 _Knitting._

What the hell …?

And so it went on. Sophie didn't expect answers. It was just her way of connecting with her errant team until she could fuss over them in person. Hardison couldn't wait to see them both.

After he had had his own shower and changed into a set of clean clothes the team always kept in Lucille, he found twenty-seven texts waiting for him. Obviously Sophie was doing a stream-of-consciousness thing, trying to keep herself calm. Most were complaining good-naturedly about Nate.

Parker was sprawled on the big bed in their room, curled once again around Eliot's jacket, sound asleep. Hardison draped a blanket over her, and then stretching out beside the snoring thief, he allowed himself to finally relax. The bed was soft, he was clean for the first time in days, and he had food and a pain pill in his stomach. He set the alarm on his cell phone to waken them in two hours. Checking out Doctor Walt Toller could wait. Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Two hours was nowhere near long enough for their bodies to catch up on their sleep-deprived state, but Hardison and Parker were soon back at the hospital.

To their combined relief, Eliot was now ensconced in one of the rooms in the Acute Patients facility, and they were finally allowed to see him.

The room was large and airy, with a full-length window along one side and a long seat below, obviously designed for family members of the patient. The whole room was comfortable, well-appointed and quiet.

Eliot, on the other hand, looked decidedly fragile, his skin washed out against the white sheets. His wore a hospital gown, and he was being fed oxygen via a nasal cannula. The head-end of the bed was raised, and he was surrounded with the medical equipment monitoring his condition. Dehydration was still a problem, so now the IV was delivering fluids as well as a broad-spectrum antibiotic and a drug to help with the low blood-pressure caused by the infection.

He was out like a light.

Parker sat down in a chair she pulled up to the bed, and studied him for long minutes, while Hardison spoke softly to a young female doctor who was bringing him up to speed on the hitter's condition.

Eliot's right arm lay outside the blankets, and Parker was horrified to see that dried bear blood still lay under his fingernails.

She frowned.

"No …" she muttered, "Not right."

Dumping Eliot's bloodstained jacket on a table, she wetted some paper towels in the small sink and gently began to wash what was left of the blood from Eliot's fingers. His thumb twitched.

Looking up from her task, Parker saw a glint of deepest blue shine from between hooded eyelids. She grinned happily.

"Hey, Sparky!"

She saw the hint of recognition in his eyes, and dry lips formed silent words.

 _You okay?_

Hardison was suddenly at Parker's side, face alight with relief.

"Yeah, man, we're fine! Nate an' Soph are on their way, an' you're gonna be outta here as soon as you bounce back from the infection, so the doc says."

Eliot's eyelids closed and opened again, very slowly.

 _Good._

"Go to sleep, Eliot. We'll be here when you wake up. Promise." Parker returned to her clean-up job on his hand, and she felt his grip tighten.

Leaving Parker to her ministrations – and amused that Mister-don't-touch-me-Eliot had to succumb to the indignity of having his hand washed by a crazy thief and resisting the urge to take a photograph with his cell phone – Hardison wandered over to the couch and pulled out his electronic notebook. Settling down for the rest of the afternoon until Nate and Sophie arrived, he set himself the task of finding out all he could about Doctor Walt Toller.

To be continued ...


	17. Chapter 17

Being doped to the eyeballs for _any_ reason was something Eliot Spencer objected to most vehemently, and as he rose from the grey limbo of unconsciousness, he couldn't stop the feeble growl escaping from his chest.

Apart from the beeping of the medical equipment monitoring his condition, he could also hear a faint clicking noise. What the hell _was_ that?

"Oh … _bugger_ ," said an exasperated female voice, rich with British nuances.

 _Sophie_. What the hell was Sophie doing here?

He tried to move, and managed after a great deal of effort, to open one eye. He took it for a win. He rolled his head towards Sophie's voice, and pried open his other eye.

"Soph?" His voice treacherously refused to be louder than a whisper, but Sophie heard it, attuned as she was to Eliot-speak.

"Well, hello there, stranger! It's about time you woke up. You've been lazing about for far too long, Eliot."

Sophie put down the knitting with which she had been struggling and eased herself out of the comfortable chair beside Eliot's bed. Reaching over to his bedside table, she poured some ice-chips into a small, plastic cup, and gently put them to his lips so that he could sip them into his mouth. The icy, fresh coolth was bliss, soothing his parched throat.

"There now," she crooned, "that should help. Do you want more?"

Eliot gave a tiny shake of his head, and for the first time in days he realised he didn't have a headache. His body felt languid, slow to react and a little bit detached, and he was finally free of pain, although he knew it was a result of the morphine being drip-fed into his system.

"When can I get outta here?" He demanded weakly.

Sophie, one hand resting on her rounded belly, settled herself down to sit beside him on the bed. Dark eyes studied him for a few moments, and one of her patrician eyebrows raised in amusement.

"And I'm very well, thank you for asking," she said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "To answer your question … probably not for a little while yet, at least until you come off the intravenous antibiotics and after making sure your kidneys aren't showing any sign of distress. A few days, maybe a week or so."

Eliot's heart sank. He knew he couldn't do anything about it until he got some of his strength back, and common sense dictated that he would have to make sure the infection was being beaten into submission. And now, dammit, he felt guilty about being rude to Sophie.

He raised a shaky hand to hold hers, and Sophie grasped it tight.

"You scared the _hell_ out of us, Eliot, you big idiot!" she whispered, suddenly teary. "Don't you ever – _ever_ \- do that again!"

Now Eliot felt like he was going to be consigned to that very special hell created exclusively for morons who upset pregnant women.

"Don't … don't worry, Soph … I'll be fine. Shouldn't upset yourself, s'not good for ya. You an' the baby … how's the bump doin'?"

"Hah! Well, ever since Parker spent the _entire_ last evening explaining to Bump why you should never use a plasma cutter to open a safe, this child hasn't slept! I swear to _God_ , if this baby comes out with a lock pick in one hand and a scotch in the other, speaking techno-babble and threatening to kneecap the midwife, I will be having _words_." Sophie fixed Eliot with a pseudo-glare.

Eliot managed a small, lopsided smile, the new smile he appeared to have cultivated ever since Sophie announced she was pregnant.

"Won't _ever_ have … have to do any kneecappin'," he whispered. "Bump's got _me_." His eyes drifted closed.

Sophie had to wipe an errant tear from the corner of her eye, and gave him a wobbly smile. _Dammit_ , she swore she wouldn't cry.

"Too bloody right, you _nerk!_ And that means you have to look after yourself, doesn't it? You're committed now." She squeezed his hand possessively. " _Got you_."

But Eliot didn't hear her. He was sound asleep.

* * *

"I got nothin', Nate. I tell ya, this man is a _saint_." Hardison sat back from his console in Lucille with a deep sigh of frustration. After a good night's sleep, the hacker was feeling almost normal apart from aching ribs, and his razor-sharp mind was now working overtime, trying find out everything he could about Doctor Walt Toller before their meeting later in the afternoon.

Nate frowned, puzzled.

"C'mon, Hardison, there must be something – _anything_ – we can use to try and figure out his angle."

"Nate – there. Is. _Nothing_. Nada. Not even a _squeak_ of something hinky." Hardison's quick fingers swarmed over the keyboard and document after document appeared in lightning procession on the screen. "Widower, three grown children –" Hardison's eyebrows raised in admiration, "his eldest daughter is a Marine. Wife died in a hit-and-run eight years ago. His finances are sound, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. No odd transactions, no shell companies, no hidden accounts … he's comfortable without being obvious about it."

Nate thought about the information, turning it over in his mind.

"What about his medical career?"

"Now that's a little more interesting," Hardison said, clearing the screen and replacing the documents with medical qualification certificates and a military ID. "He was an army surgeon, seventeen years in the service. He was active as a trauma surgeon in the field in Saudi during Desert Shield and Desert Storm in '90 and '91. Then Iraq in 2002, during the coalition invasion. Now what's _really_ curious is that he was there before the actual invasion, entrenched with the C.I.A. forces and Kurdish Peshmerga in the north. He had a field hospital set up near Halabja."

Parker was sitting behind them on the sofa bed, arms wrapped around Eliot's jacket, watching both men.

"Eliot was in Iraq," she said.

"We _think_ he was in Iraq," Nate said, frustration rife in his voice. "We don't actually know for sure, Parker."

"Ain't that the truth," Hardison added. "Man's a frikkin' ghost. Can't find a damn thing, an' believe me, I've tried." He blinked. "An' you didn't hear that, okay? 'Cause, … 'cause, even though he's laid up in hospital don't mean Eliot can't kill me dead with his pinky, a'ight?"

Parker had to smile at that one.

"Eliot's a ninjaaaaa!" she cackled.

"So … this doctor has nothing other than he's decent, hardworking and saves lives." Nate mused. "Damn, that's annoying." He stood up. "If that's all we've got, then we just go with the flow and think on our feet. Let's go find out what Doctor Toller has to say."

Hardison and Parker looked at each other. They had to remember that this was all about Eliot, and making sure he and the rest of the team were not compromised. Switching off his bank of geeky toys, both he and the thief followed Nate out of Lucille into a cold, dull afternoon. Now they would find out what was going on.

* * *

"C'mon in," Toller welcomed them into his office. "I see the family group has increased by two," he added. "Let me look for another chair …"

Parker promptly sat down on the floor, crosslegged, Eliot's jacket on her lap.

Toller's mouth quirked. Well, that solved the problem. Hardison sat on the chair beside Parker and Nate helped Sophie settle herself into an old, leather-bound seat, the most comfortable one in the room.

The doctor's office was small, comfortably cluttered and, Nate noticed, plastered with photographs of people, old and young, many of them inscribed with words of thanks. _Patients_. There was a photograph of a young woman in dress uniform, obviously his daughter. More photographs of two young men laughing into the camera hung on the wall behind the old oak desk. Toller's sons. On his desk was the image of Toller and an elegant, dark-haired woman with a warm, smiling face, and he remembered that Toller, like himself, had lost someone dear to him under difficult circumstances.

Nathan tried hard not to instinctively like the man.

He found the last seat, an old computer chair, and sat down beside Sophie, reaching out for her hand.

"I'm Tom Stone, Ellis's brother." Nate squeezed Sophie's hand. "My wife, Anne."

Toller sat in his chair behind the desk and studied the four people before him. This Anne Stone reminded him of his late wife. He folded his hands together on the desk. He went right to it.

"I know that 'Ellis Stone' is no more your brother than I am," he said quietly.

The silence in the room was absolute. The four people before him were suddenly tense, and the young woman on the floor was fixing him with blazing eyes. Her hands held the bloodstained jacket in a death grip.

"Now, before you begin uttering threats against my life," he had to smile at the tone in his own voice, "let me tell you a story. _Please_ ," he added, raising a hand to prevent any interruption, "it's important."

Nate, muscles jumping along his jaw, spoke slowly and precisely. He could feel Sophie's grip crushing his hand.

"We … are _all ears_ ," he replied icily, his voice soft with menace.

Toller nodded. He had some breathing space.

"You probably know by now that I was an army surgeon." He saw the young black man's lip curl in annoyance. "I know you have sources." He waited for a reaction. There was no movement from any of them, so he continued. "July 2002, I was in Iraqi Kurdistan. We had a small field hospital to handle any casualties from the CIA SAD team."

He realised he had their attention.

"Go on," the dark-haired woman said, her accent cold and precise. _British_ , Toller realised.

"The aim was to take out a chemical weapons facility at Sargat. There were … _casualties_." Toller took a deep breath. "One of them was a young man, barely out of his teens, the only survivor of his assault team. His lower back was one helluva mess of grenade fragments."

"Eliot," came a small voice. Parker looked stricken and her voice quivered with emotion. "His name … it's Eliot. And he _is_ my brother. Maybe not a real brother, but he looks after us just like a brother does. He keeps us _safe_."

The faces of all four people from this unlikely family – and they _were_ a family, Toller now understood, no matter that they were not in fact related to one another – were tight with emotion. He took a deep breath and continued.

"That young man and your _brother_ … they're one and the same."

"How … how do you know? I mean, you can't remember every patient, man, every _face_ –" Hardison was now very confused.

"His x-rays," Toller said quickly.

"So … why does this matter?" Nathan said, his voice carefully emotionless. "Why tell us? What do you _want from us?_ " This doctor obviously had an angle, but he was damned if he could figure out what it was.

Toller shook his head.

"Nothing. Absolutely _nothing_. All I want to do is make something right. Something that has bugged me for twelve years. I want to _help_ him, people, not harm _anyone_."

Nathan turned this over in his mind for long moments, and then made a decision. He held out his hand.

"The name's Nate. Nate Ford."

Toller shook the proffered hand.

"My wife, Sophie, Alec Hardison and Parker."

"And that's _just_ Parker," Parker hissed. "What's wrong with Eliot's x-rays?"

"I'm getting to that," Toller said, relaxing back in his seat. It had been tense there for a minute or two. "When I dug the fragments out of him all those years ago, I had to leave one in." He hesitated, and then forged onward. "I couldn't take it out. It was too near his spine. It's still there. That's how I knew who he was." He smiled. "I didn't initially recognise him – twelve years and all that long hair threw me."

Sophie was horrified.

"Is … is he in danger?"

"Not immediately, no." Toller, now that the first shock was over, felt more comfortable discussing the issue. "I told him about the fragment when he came around from the anaesthetic. He took it as though it didn't matter. I told him that I would recommend a medical discharge." He paused for a second, and then continued. "I didn't know his name, you understand. I wasn't told. For the three days he was in my care, he hardly spoke. I didn't blame him. He'd lost his entire team, and the only thing he really spoke about was his rifle – the scope was broken, and he wanted to know when he would get it replaced. I suppose he was a sniper – I never did find out. God, he seemed so young. But there was something … _older_ , about him … as though he'd lived a lifetime in just a few years."

"This fragment … how dangerous is it?" Nate asked.

"Considering how badly he's treated his body since I last saw him, he's doing okay. He's still reasonably young, and he's fit. But … the fragment _has_ moved."

"Yeah, well, Eliot's pretty hands on," Hardison muttered. "Can you remove the fragment now?"

Toller shook his head.

"Not yet. I told him all those years ago that he should have the fragment checked every six months or so, just to keep an eye on it. I guessed by the damage he's sustained over the years that he hasn't bothered. I don't even know if he was discharged as I recommended."

"What's the situation with the fragment now, Doctor Toller?" Sophie asked, her voice now warm with concern.

"Walt, please" Toller smiled. "It's better, oddly enough. But it's slowly heading towards his right kidney. Whereas I couldn't remove it due to its proximity to his spine, now it's working its way through back muscle. But there are a whole bunch of nerves leading to the right leg and one or two big arteries in the region, and the whole situation needs monitoring. I wouldn't want to mess with it if I don't have to. But he really, _really_ needs to have it checked regularly." He raised his eyebrows. "And I want you folks to make sure he does."

The team looked at one another. How in God's name would they ever get Eliot to listen to them, let alone actually do as he was told. It was a near-impossible task.

Hardison, however, wanted more information.

"How did you figure us out? I mean, how did you know –"

"Gunshot wounds." Toller said simply. "Within fifteen seconds of examining him, I counted three. The one in his right biceps is an old one, but the scars on his right shoulder and left leg are much newer. Eighteen months old or less." He grinned. "One thing I know about is gunshot wounds."

Nate could live with that. He had a few scars of his own.

"Thirteen months, two weeks, three days," Parker muttered. "That's how long ago."

Toller took that on board. This unconventional family was nothing like he had ever encountered before.

"I also counted seventeen broken bones in the torso region alone. Most of his ribs, both clavicles … some of his ribs have been broken more than once. His left clavicle hasn't healed straight – if he's wearing a safety belt and the brakes are slammed on … that would hurt like hell, even now." He sighed. "His hands are scarred, broken fingers … he had none of these twelve years ago."

Sophie put a hand over her mouth in shock. She was thinking of the repeated punishment Eliot had taken to his back and kidneys on the day Nate's father Jimmy had died. _God, he must have been pissing blood for a week_. And he had a metal fragment in his back that could have _killed him_.

Toller continued.

"I was curious enough after I recognised him to call up an old army buddy of mine. He was Eliot's commanding officer in Iraq. Mike Vance. You know him?"

Hardison's eyes widened, and he nodded.

"What did he say?"

Toller shrugged.

"Nothing. Just that Eliot and the folks he was with were good people, and I should take care of them. It was good enough for me."

There was a collective sigh of relief.

"So, Doc … what do we do? How can we help?" Hardison asked quietly.

Toller leaned forward, happier now that he had them on board.

"Eliot needs two things. First, he needs to have that fragment checked out. I can help you with that. I carry out operations at a hospital in Portland a couple of times a month and I can schedule appointments to suit. Secondly … if he doesn't want to end up in a wheelchair by the time he's fifty, he needs to stop taking so much punishment."

Oh jeez. Now _that_ was going to be a problem, Hardison thought. The giving and taking of punishment was quite a substantial part of Eliot's job. At least, that was how the hitter saw it.

The doctor continued. "The only people I've seen with more broken bones are bull riders on the rodeo circuit – and generally they don't get shot or stabbed. If Eliot is to continue doing … _whatever the hell it is that he does_ … he has to think about protection. New strategies. Whatever it takes. And he'll need you to help him, although I can guess that won't be very welcome. I'm also guessing he'll be out of here as soon as he can walk."

"That, Walt, is an understatement," Nate sighed. "Guys, we have some thinking to do. Let's get something to eat and then keep Eliot company for a bit." He stood up, and shook hands again with the little doctor. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

Toller showed them to the door.

"Anytime, my friend. Any time. And if you need anything, call me." He handed Nate a card. "Day or night." Then he remembered something. "By the way, the spiderwebs … that was inspired. They probably saved his life, slowing down the infection."

Hardison grinned. _Go, Eliot_.

Nate began to work through the problem Toller had set them, even as they exited the doctor's office and walked to the hospital outer doors. This was going to be _tough_.

To be continued …


	18. Chapter 18

Dinner in the local eatery was a subdued affair. The food was good but not exceptional, and the team keenly felt the absence of their hitter, even though he would often spend team meals outside the brewpub critiquing the menu. Hardison especially missed driving Eliot into a sputtering rage by saying how much he loved pizza with anchovies and pineapple.

"So," Nate finally said, dropping his napkin onto a now-empty plate. "How do you solve a problem like Eliot? I need ideas, people."

"Well, whatever we do, he's gonna kill us or leave. Or possibly kill us _then_ leave," Hardison commented wryly.

Sophie shook her head.

"He won't leave. He made me a promise, remember? When Nate and I retired? He would protect you all until his dying day."

"But what if he feels he _can't_ protect us?" Parker said. "What if he thinks he's useless? He _will_ leave and it'll be _awful_ , and I'll hate it and we won't be _us_ anymore -"

"Not gonna happen, baby girl," Hardison said firmly, trying to stay positive. "We'll find a way. I mean … I been thinkin' about findin' lightweight body armour an' adapting it. An' he doesn't need to wear it unless it looks as though it's gonna be rough. Although … on second thoughts … Eliot does spend a lot of time punching the bad guys. Maybe I need to think some more …" he added softly, his mouth downturned in dejection.

"One thing we can't do," Nate said firmly, "is lie to him. He'll know and then he'll never trust another word we say. _Ever_. Eliot's always been straight with us –"

"-apart from not telling us about him and Moreau," Hardison added, a little sharply.

"He had his reasons," Sophie interjected kindly. "I know it was a deception of sorts, but I can understand his reticence. If I'd worked for that madman I wouldn't brag about it. Would you?"

Hardison thought about it for a second and then grudgingly shook his head.

"No. I guess not. And he was just tryin' to keep us safe. I get that. So we have to be straightforward with him."

"And we have to have solutions in place that he can be comfortable with," Nate added. "We have to have every objection answered with something positive. Something that he can accept as a win."

"We have to see this from Eliot's point of view, and we have to understand that he's proud and bloody stubborn," Sophie said a little waspishly. Dealing with Eliot on a daily basis could be a bit of a challenge sometimes. "Plus, for some reason utterly _beyond_ me, he seems to think we keep him around just to punch people. Or take the punishment to protect us." She narrowed her eyes. " _Pillock_."

"K.I.S.S." Parker said quietly, as she munched her way through a cookie.

"S'cuse me?" Nate frowned, puzzled.

Parker shoved another bite of cookie in her mouth.

"Keep it shimple shtoopid," she added, words fighting past chocolate chips. Her tongue poked out of her mouth and licked stray chocolate from her lip.

Nate suddenly realised Parker was absolutely right. Now was not a time for complicated plots and plans. All they had to do was present Eliot with a _fait accompli_ … something he simply couldn't argue with as a solution to their problem.

Sophie suddenly grinned.

"Got it!" she said, satisfaction dripping from every word. "Oh God, that is so simple!" She looked at her friends and husband. "I'll explain in a minute. Now all we have to do is figure out how Eliot can be safer while still doing his job as he sees it. _And_ convince him to get his check-ups." Sophie sobered slightly. "Hmmm. It won't be easy. We have a couple of days at most to see what we can come up with, and then he'll be making a break for it from the hospital."

"And then we have to find somewhere he can't run away from while we sort him out," Parker added, sucking the last of the chocolate stains from her fingers.

"An' someplace where there ain't no knives, baseball bats, sporting trophies or organ pipes so he can't beat any of us to a pulp," Hardison muttered. _Not that he would ever do such a thing_ , Hardison thought. Well … _probably_ not.

"I think we have a plan, girls and boys," Nate smiled. "Well … a bit of one. The devil is in the detail. When he goes for the breakout we have to catch him before he runs and disappears." He pulled out his cell phone and his smile widened into a grin. "I think we need to bring the doc in on this one."

Decision made, Hardison booted up his notebook and began to think.

* * *

In the end, it took Eliot two days, thirteen hours and twenty-two minutes to make his escape.

The infection was being stubborn, and that damn doctor had insisted that Eliot remain attached to the IV for another two days just to knock any residual problems on the head.

And _then_ … he discovered he had no clothes. According to Sophie, the clothes he had arrived in weren't fit for lining a stable, so she had taken them away and had the bloodstained and cut-into-pieces shirts and pants destroyed. For some reason it also meant his boxers, socks and boots had also disappeared. He suspected subterfuge, but couldn't prove it, and there was no way he was walking – well, _shuffling_ , really – out of the hospital in nothing but a hospital gown and his bare ass hanging in the breeze. He spent a whole afternoon seething about that one.

He had also lain in his _goddamn_ bed and had to listen to that _goddamn doctor_ who looked annoyingly familiar blather on about physio on his shoulder, the metal fragment in his back and about how he should take more care of himself, blah-blah-blah … yeah, _right_. The metal fragment had never, _ever_ bothered him. He was fine. Or … he _would_ be fine if he was left alone to heal, and not have to deal with all of the poking and needles, yet _more_ friggin' x-rays and a nurse of about ninety-three and as cantankerous as a ol' scrub bull, who tolerated none of the Spencer bullshit.

He was utterly and royally _screwed_.

But on the morning of the third day after he had hauled himself out of the fog of unconsciousness, he awoke to find a pile of clean clothes, warm trainers and a coat and beanie lying on the bottom of the bed. _Huh_. It appeared his goddamn _team_ had decided to give him, _Eliot goddamn Spencer_ , permission to finally get dressed.

He grinned nastily. Well, _he_ would show _them_ just how friggin' laid up he was.

Until, he discovered, it was very difficult to untie the bows holding the gown shut at the back when his left arm and side were heavily bandaged and his shoulder immobilised.

And then a thought hit him. _Hardison_. He wouldn't put it past that sneaky sonofabitch to bug the hospital room or even set up a hidden camera. _Damn_. So for another hour or so he slowly and painfully scoured the room, looking for odd bits of Hardison-tech that the geeky little shit might have secreted about the place, just so the team could keep an eye on him during the initial stages of his recovery. Eliot Spencer wasn't about to have his trials and tribulations of trying to get into his clothes screened on the plasma at Leverage HQ as an appetiser to a _goddamn_ _Star Wars_ marathon. There would be retribution and carnage a-plenty, he vowed to himself.

Eventually satisfied that the room was bug-and-camera-free, he set about getting himself dressed.

The boxers and denim jeans weren't too much of a problem, although bending over to pull them on sent Eliot into a dizzy spiral, and he had to sit on his bed for long minutes until the world righted itself.

The thermal undershirt and soft plaid shirt were a bit more problematic. First he had to take off the hated hospital gown. There didn't appear to be a single nurse within earshot or buzzer-range, which was odd. He _could_ always wait until one of the team showed up, he supposed. He looked at the clock above the door. _Strange_ , he mused. _They should have been here by now._ Then he got it. They were _letting him suffer_ by making him do this all on his own. That was just _typical_. Well, that was okay. He had always managed on his own before.

The gown didn't survive Eliot pulling it over his head and ripping open the ties at the back, and then it was tossed into a corner and promptly forgotten about. The shirt sleeves on his left side were tackled next. By carefully managing to hold each shirt between the finger and thumb of his left hand – the only bits of his arm which worked properly – he used his right hand to tuck the sleeve inside itself so that it wasn't flapping loose. It was then a few minutes' effort to carefully work the shirts over his head and right arm and pulling them down his left side.

He had to sit quietly for a while after that, to let the pain and nausea subside.

Tucking the shirts into his pants was impossible, so once his stomach had stopped rebelling, his next job was stuffing the laces of the trainers between the tongue and the criss-cross of the lacing and slipping his bare feet into the trainers themselves. He knew instinctively that he wouldn't be able to manage putting on the socks, so he shoved them into the pocket of the button-up coat, finding his wallet in the pocket when he did so.

The coat was on, the beanie holding back his long hair, which hadn't been washed since he arrived at the hospital and was driving him _crazy_ , and he was ready to discharge himself and go hole up somewhere quiet for a little while. Then he could hide away from the team where he could lick his wounds and be free from the disturbingly comfortable _family_ thing that was going on. Being comfortable was … _nice_. And Eliot Spencer didn't deal well with nice. He didn't deserve _nice_.

 _Screw this_. He finally lifted his thumb-stick from its place beside the bed, and gingerly got to his feet. Yep. He was ready to get the hell outta Dodge.

Until the _goddamn doctor_ opened the door and walked in.

What ensued was an hour of Eliot doing lots of surly growling – patience in these situations was never his strong point – and the doctor cheerfully explaining all about filling out the forms and procedures regarding his discharge Against Medical Advice. Eliot did have to admit the _goddamn doctor_ was being very pleasant about it.

Once that was done, Eliot was forced to wait for nearly _two hours_ for his medication to arrive from the pharmacy. If he had had his way he would have just left the hospital and gone hunting for the relevant antibiotics from one of his contacts, but he was too far from his base of operations. So … he waited.

It was early afternoon before he finally had everything he needed, and then he headed for the door to the big wide world, scorning the hovering nurse with the wheelchair following him along the corridor, not listening to her wittering on about hospital policies.

He was slow, hurting and exhausted. But he was mobile – mostly - and walking out of this _goddamn hospital_ on his own two feet.

And as he eased his damaged frame out into bright sunshine and blue, blue skies, he was faced with Lucille and his so-called friggin' _friends_ ranged in front of the big van, arms crossed, and grinning like idiots.

"Oh … _shit_ ," he said.

* * *

"Ready to go home, Eliot?" Nate called out.

Eliot realised he'd been set up.

Sophie, Hardison and Parker fanned out, blocking his escape route. Sure … like he could avoid them in his wounded state. He sighed. To hell with it. He was just about dead on his feet, and he could really do with lying down and sleeping for a month or three.

"Got no choice," he rasped, not holding back the irritation.

Nate's grin faded into concerned lines, his brow furrowed. He wandered over to stand by Eliot, his voice quiet.

"C'mon, man … get in Lucille before you pass out. Let us help you. Just like you helped me."

Blue eyes met blue.

Eliot saw the pain in Nate's gaze, the loss of his son, and then his father, and what those losses had cost him. And he knew Nate had been given a second chance … a wife and a child on the way … the future he never thought he would see.

For a moment, Nate saw how lost Eliot was. How adrift he was in the world, and how lonely. He saw in the deep blue of the younger man's eyes the pride in the care of his team, his friends, and the everlasting fear of not being able to fulfil his promise. He suddenly understood what it had cost Eliot to become a part of this team and its crazy, dangerous life, and how he believed his ledger would never be clear of the bloody debt he owed, no matter how much he sacrificed.

Nate rested a hand on Eliot's good shoulder, and carefully steered him towards his family.

"Let's get you settled and then we can go home. And while we're at it …" Nate's smile suddenly flashed bright. "… _we_ are going to have a little chat."

Eliot, perplexed, weary and immensely annoyed, looked at each of his compatriots in turn and noted the expression of smug triumph on each face.

Screwed? Nah. It was worse than that. He knew he was going to get the _Talk_.

* * *

Eliot had to hand it to Hardison. The sofa bed in Lucille was comfortable, and he had been brusquely settled in by Parker, who had plumped him up with pillows and a comforter.

He dozed on and off, enjoying the gentle rock of Lucille as Hardison powered the big vehicle along highway 84 westward, heading towards Pendleton, with the Blue Mountains a haze in the distance on this fall afternoon. He could see the passing landscape through the one-way tinted window, and he half-listened to the easy conversation of his people, soft laughter and bantering arguments easing the turmoil within him. Hell, they weren't _that_ bad to hang out with when he was feeling a tad fragile, he supposed.

But, he knew, it wouldn't last. It never did. And he had to be prepared for that, probably sooner rather than later.

Nate had checked the rental car in at Elgin as they passed through the small town, and now he and Sophie were busy explaining why they would not be calling the baby Desdemona Alice if it was a girl. Parker liked the name Desdemona. Des-de- _mon_ -a. It was a cool name, she thought.

"Nate – rest stop comin' up," Hardison called out softly.

Nate glanced over at Eliot, who looked pale and tired, and knew the hitter must be feeling the pain without the steady drip of morphine into his system. He hadn't taken any pain medication since early that morning, Toller had said when the doctor had called Nate to warn him Eliot was on the move.

"Okay, Eliot … meds. Antibiotics and pain pills," he said quietly, sorting through the paper bag of medication he had taken from Eliot when they had loaded him, protesting noisily, into Lucille at the hospital.

Hardison tooled Lucille into the isolated rest stop, and turned off the engine. After extricating himself from the driver's seat, he opened their small refrigerator and brought out packed sandwiches while Parker dug out a couple of flasks filled with tea.

It was while Eliot was washing down the pills with a bottle of water that he realised Parker had settled on the floor beside him, and Sophie and Nate were seated on the comfortable leather-upholstered chairs to his left. Hardison was pressing buttons, and the plasma screen and banks of geeky stuff instantly burst into life.

Gearing up to deliver one of his lectures that no-one understood, Hardison helped himself to a sandwich. Hmm. It wasn't anywhere near up to Eliot's exacting standards, but it would do. He cleared his throat and aimed the remote at the screen.

 _Oh God_. Eliot's heart sank. Hardison had prepared a power-point presentation. This was, no doubt, the dreaded _Talk_.

"Right …" Hardison said to get everyone's attention. "Anyone heard of liquid body armour?"

An image of something like a toasted sandwich being assaulted by an armour-piercing round appeared on the screen.

"Pretty new technology, still in the experimental stage. I don't think it's been field-tested yet," Nate commented. "Kevlar soaked in some kind of liquid."

Hardison finished a bite of sandwich and nodded.

"That's about the gist of it," he agreed, bringing up another image, this time of a heavy Kevlar vest. "The traditional vest is damned heavy – ten pounds even without the ceramic inserts, and it's as awkward as hell. It takes between twenty and forty layers of fabric to stop a bullet."

"I got a question," Eliot piped up, his voice hoarse with pain. The meds still had to kick in.

Hardison pointed at Eliot.

"You sir, the perforated gentleman at the back."

"Just why the hell are we sittin' in Lucille in the middle of nowhere listenin' to Hardison babble on about Kevlar?"

Hardison crossed his arms in irritation and glared at Nate, eyebrows raised.

Nate frowned at the hitter.

"Shut up, Eliot," he said firmly.

Without waiting for Eliot to descend into a grump, Hardison continued.

"Well, anyway …liquid body armour. Instead of forty layers of Kevlar, it consists of only _eight_ , soaked in what the boffins are calling shear-thickening fluid. It's a colloid …" he brought up a diagram of a piece of Kevlar filled with floaty round bobbly things, "which consists of silica particles floatin' in polyethylene glycol. The silica particles repel each other slightly, so they float easily throughout the liquid without clumpin' together or settlin' to the bottom. But when they're hit by somethin' like a bullet or even a fist, they stick together an' get hard, an' allow the shock to travel better through the Kevlar. _And_ … once the impact has happened, the silicon relaxes an' becomes soft again." He grinned. "Much lighter, much more flexible, an' can help protect Eliot's back."

 _Oh_.

Eliot stiffened in anger. They knew. That _goddamn doctor_ … they _knew_. He had _no right_ telling them Eliot's business. He struggled to throw off the comforter and sit up, but the four of them were anticipating his actions, and they all stood, ranging around him.

"Get outta my way," he growled, the pain thumping though his shoulder and side, but he was damned if they were going to stop him doing what he needed to do. If only he could just friggin' _stand up_. _Then_ he'd show 'em –

Sophie leaned forward, eyes suddenly glistening with tears, and very gently touched Eliot's shoulder, and it was as if he'd been stapled to the seat.

"Shhh, Eliot … stay put. You're hurt … lie still, _please_ … for me …"

 _Ohhhh_ , that was a low blow. Sophie, just a little bit teary and seven months pregnant, knew damned well Eliot would stay put – weepy women, especially _very pregnant_ weepy women, was something against which he had no defense.

 _Dammit_.

Eliot simmered, shaking.

"You have _no right_ – "

"Yes, Eliot … we _do_ ," Parker crouched down beside him. " _Every_ right. 'Cause you're _ours_. And we have _every right_ to protect you, just like you protect us. You don't have a say, because we need you and we love you and … and … you have the right to be safe too." She leaned forward and poked Eliot none-too-gently in the forehead. "So live with it, and listen to Hardison."

Eliot blinked, confused.

"Is this … is this an _intervention?_ "

Hardison had the grace to look embarrassed.

"Maybe … just a little bit." He uncrossed his arms and shifted from foot to foot for a moment, and then gestured at the screen. "We know about the metal fragment in your back, an' we know you need to take a bit more care of yourself, soooo … I figured … well, I figured you an' me … we could kinda work together on this …"

"An _intervention?_ _Seriously?_ "

Eliot looked from face to face. From Nate's concerned features to Parker's desperation, from Hardison's embarrassment to Sophie's carefully tear-glistened eyes, he suddenly realized these idiots really _were_ trying their best to look out for him. Because he mattered. And because he _belonged_.

Eliot Spencer had not _belonged_ for nearly twenty years.

 _Well hell_ , he thought. _What did he do now?_

To be continued …


	19. Chapter 19

_He had to get out_.

Eliot had to get out into the air where he could breathe and where he wasn't overwhelmed by everybody and everything, and try to make sense of the staggering realization that he was _wanted_. And what was more, he was wanted for _himself_ , and not because of the death and destruction he could visit on other human beings.

"Please …" he gasped, grey and wheezing and shaking with tension, "gotta … gotta move …"

And then he was being lifted, many hands gently easing him to his feet and Lucille's back doors were thrown wide, flooding the interior with warm golden light from the ending of a beautiful day.

He tried to walk but his legs wouldn't respond, but it didn't matter because _they_ were there, holding him close and easily, careful of his injuries, and he was suddenly standing in afternoon sunlight that was dipping to the west in gold and red and soft peach, safe and kind on his battered body.

They led him to a picnic bench seat and set him down to face the sunset, and Sophie placed a hand on his chest, her soft murmur of words slowing his pounding heart and letting him catch his breath.

"Need some time?" She asked quietly.

Eliot nodded, not too sure what had just happened, but he had to get his head together and figure this … this … _stuff_ out.

Parker appeared at Eliot's side and silently handed him a cup of steaming, scented tea, and then everyone backed off, wandering back to Lucille and leaving him alone on the seat.

"Don't you leave!" Parker called out. "You promised you wouldn't leave us!" And then Hardison was shushing her and Nate gestured at the hills and valleys around them.

"There's nowhere for him to go, Parker. Let him alone. He'll be okay for a little bit, and I promise we'll keep an eye on him. Go eat something."

Then Eliot was free and able to breath, feeling the chill air pierce his lungs and allowing oxygen to feed his mind and heart. He took a sip of the tea, and the heat filled his chest and belly, warming his soul. He felt much better, and a modicum of the ire he had felt upon their intrusion into his privacy returned, making him grunt with annoyance.

But he knew … he _knew_ … that he had reached a crossroads in his life. One he had neither expected nor wanted, to be honest. He was better alone. But he didn't _like_ being alone. And it wasn't as though he hadn't seen it coming, and he should have got out long ago, instead of ignoring the warnings and letting all of this crap whack him upsides the head like a bag of bricks. Now it was too late. He had people to care for, people who actually cared if he lived or died … or even ended up a cripple.

Eliot Spencer finally acknowledged that the metal fragment in his back could put him in a wheelchair or even kill him if it shifted a fraction of an inch the wrong way. And he was _tired_ of not being able to raise his right arm above his head without severe pain, due to the bullet he had taken thirteen months ago. He was getting _extremely_ weary of his hands being stiff and achy on cold mornings, and his collar bone hurting like _hell_ if he had to jam the brakes on in his pickup and the safety belt jarred it.

He sighed ruefully. The decision was moot – he had no choice. Looking over at Lucille, he raised his tea and signalled to the four people he cared about most in the world as they hung around the back of the van, and patiently waited for their hitter to make his mind up whether or not to slice them into itty-bitty pieces.

Exhaling slowly, he watched the cold air mist his breath, and he closed his eyes a moment to brace himself for an uncertain future. But, for the first time in nearly two decades, he understood he now had a future which contained _hope_.

And, he knew, he was now utterly, completely and irreversibly committed to dealing every day with a bunch of total nutcases.

* * *

They hadn't asked him what his decision was.

Nate had silently slung Eliot's arm over his shoulders and Parker had walked beside Eliot as they shuffled slowly back to Lucille, holding his cup of tea and making sure his damaged shoulder and side weren't jarred. Hardison was ready to support Eliot as Nate guided him up and into Lucille, and Sophie had the sofa bed prepared with pillows to support Eliot as he rested up.

He had never felt so treasured in his life. It was going to take a _lot_ of getting used to.

By the time Eliot was once more cosily wrapped up in his comforter, the pain meds finally kicking in and making him fuzzy around the edges, Hardison had taken down his presentation from the plasma screen and crouched gingerly beside Eliot for a moment, favouring his damaged ribs and glancing at Sophie, who had changed her seat to the well-upholstered one with the footrest, right beside Eliot.

"Hey man," Hardison said to Eliot, his face a little anxious, "you gonna be okay?"

Eliot gave the hacker a devil-may-care shrug which ended up as a pained one-armed shoulder-role.

"Sure. I'll be fine. Tired, though." Eliot paused for a second. "Go work on the damn Kevlar vest, Hardison. Fill me in when I ain't feelin' like I got hit by an eighteen-wheeler. An' I know what that feels like, by the way," he added, doing his damnedest to be the growly, bad-tempered sonofabitch they all knew and loved.

Hardison's mobile face lit up, as excited as a four-year-old after eating two packs of gummy frogs.

"You got it, bro! I think we're gonna do great things … I been lookin' at samurai armour … it's light an' it was designed for ease of movement so … yeah … you an' me will figure this out. All the places you need free movement. Or … or we just make it an all-over vest, like a… like a teeshirt or somethin' … An' I was thinkin' we could design somethin' for Parker too – protect her when she does her fallin' an' crawlin'. But … but you gotta rest up, m'man. We'll talk about it when you're healed up a bit more."

Eliot had a helluva job schooling his face into a scowl when the muscles around his mouth were telling him to smile.

"Great, kid. Don't get cocky," he quoted, the humour in his voice unmistakeable.

Hardison grinned now, happy that Eliot was happy and actually coming out with _Star Wars_ quotes. The hitter really _had_ been watching the film instead of reading a book on medieval siege warfare.

"Age of the geek, baby!" he grinned. His face softened. "You gotta take care, Eliot. Let us help if we can. It matters, bro. _You_ matter."

For a second or two Eliot once again had that lost look on his face, and Hardison's smile widened once more.

"Yeah … I know. Hard, ain't it. Havin' family. Suck it up, tough guy. It ain't goin' away."

Parker suddenly appeared beside Hardison as they all heard Nate shutting the rear doors and walking around to the driver's seat, clambering in and starting the engine.

The little thief had Eliot's jacket clutched to her chest. Hardison sighed in exasperation.

"C'mon, Parker, the damn' jacket's a wreck –"

Parker ignored him, and tucked herself onto the sofa bed beside Eliot's legs. She schooled her elfin features into a stern gaze leading Eliot to wonder just what the hell he'd done wrong now.

"Eliot."

"What?" Eliot managed a little bit of a bear-growl. He tried out a scowl, but the sheer effort wore him out even more.

"Doctor Walt says I'm to make sure you do your physiotherapy. And don't try and get out of it, because I've been 'specially trained."

 _Ouch_. That sounded ominous.

"Parker had a few sessions with the physiotherapist so she could help once you were up to it," Sophie added, her tone firm. "We thought you would find it easier rather than hiring someone."

"Soph, I can do my own physio –" Eliot was adamant. He'd done it before … exercising injured bone and muscle, keeping them moving so they didn't stiffen up. But the stretching and exercise hadn't really helped that much. Maybe … maybe he really _did_ need a little help.

"I know, Eliot. But this time …" Sophie took a deep breath and continued, " _this time_ , you'll do it properly. No excuses, growling, crashing out of the office in a huff and slamming doors or any other bad behaviour. This is important. And it _will_ happen."

Eliot looked from Sophie to Hardison to Parker, who still hung on to the battered jacket. He let out an explosive sigh, as though he had been holding his breath for a lifetime.

He was so, _so_ up shit creek without a paddle it wasn't even funny.

He gave in.

"Okay. _Okay_ ," he grouched, weariness in every word. "You got me. Now _go away_. I'm too tired to be bothered with your touchy-feely crap an' I'm sore. So go play video games an' leave me the _hell alone_."

Hardison gave the hitter a toothy grin.

"Man … you are so, _so_ screwed!"

And before Eliot could bend him into a pretzel one-handed, Hardison was gone, easing himself into the front passenger seat beside Nate.

The purr of Lucille's engine changed as Nate put her into gear and eased back out onto the highway. The sun was low now, the sky draped with streaks of purple and rose, and the hills turned dark blue as the hour before dusk shadowed their hollows and peaks.

Parker still sat beside Eliot, studying him. The painkillers had taken more of a hold, and the man she regarded as her big brother looked worn and sick and not a little shaky after the difficult day.

"He needs to sleep, Parker," Sophie said quietly, trying not to disturb the wounded man. "Why not go and get some rest yourself?"

Parker nodded, understanding. But she had something to do first.

"Just a sec," she said, and grasped Eliot's good hand for a moment before rummaging in the right-hand pocket of the bloodstained rag of a jacket on her lap. She smiled when she found what she was looking for, and unfurling Eliot's hand, she dropped something into the palm and closed his fingers over the object. Eliot, half-asleep, lifted his hand and opened it.

There lay James Preston's dog tags.

Eliot stared at them for long moments, thinking about the job he had promised to do and how he was going to make it right for Preston's family. If he could make it right, then all of the pain and danger would have been worth it.

He slowly closed his hand around the dog tags and nodded to Parker, thanking her with a look no words could replace.

"You're welcome, Sparky," she whispered. And dropping a swift peck of a kiss on Eliot's cheek, she shifted to one of the big leather seats, curled up like a mouse and went to sleep.

And as Eliot allowed himself to drift into a dreamless sleep, Sophie saw the lines of pain and stress ease from his face, and she smiled. She patted her rounded stomach, and the baby shifted easily inside her.

"Well, Bump," she said. "It looks as though everything is going to be _all right_."

So she looked out of Lucille's window at the shifting light of a fall sunset, and fell into a contented doze knowing her family was back together again as the big van carried them all home.

To be continued ...


	20. Chapter 20

The world through the windscreen looked drab and bleak as Hardison drove Lucille through the streets of Mount Vernon, north of downtown Seattle. The rain was a steady drizzle, and as he navigated the glistening, drenched roads he was privately worrying about Eliot.

It was just under three weeks since the team had returned home to Portland, and Eliot was healing slowly but surely. He had spent the time during his enforced inactivity trying to track down James Preston's family.

The job wasn't a hard one and Hardison had done his best to be as thorough and as precise as he could, but Eliot fretted, and he had not been easy to deal with. Bad nights and lack of sleep had made the hitter even crankier than usual. Worse than that, he had also lost weight, the effects of his injuries coupled by the need to do right by the dead Marine had made eating a meal incidental at best, especially since his appetite wasn't great.

Hardison glanced over at Nate, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. The man seemed to wear a perpetual worried frown these days, exacerbated by the fact that Sophie was less than four weeks away from her due date, and she was sitting in Lucille on a six-hour round trip just to keep Eliot company.

"We're doin' the right thing, Nate. Aren't we?" Hardison asked, a little unsure. "I mean, I get why we're here, but the authorities an' the VA know about James an' they would have done the right thing. Eliot's jus' been so tied up with this an' he still ain't anywhere near all healed up."

"He's doing what he has to do, Hardison. All we can do is – hey, looks like we're here," Nate said, gesturing at a small, unassuming house with a neat front yard. It was shabby but well-cared for. Nate knew James Preston's older sister lived in this house – his only living relative. Hardison pulled up in front of the gate and turned off Lucille's engine.

"Is that her?" Hardison asked.

A figure came out of the screen door and onto the covered porch, a slender, small woman in her seventies.

"Yep," Nate replied, "I guess so." He turned around to speak to Eliot, who had silently sat gazing out of the window for the entire trip, but the hitter was already moving, opening one of Lucille's back doors and stepping out into the misty drizzle.

Eliot had prepared for this visit with great care. His chestnut-brown hair was swept back into a neat ponytail, and he had dressed conservatively, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads over a white button-down shirt and tasteful tie. His metal-framed spectacles sat in his breast pocket and he looked for all the world like a professor, Parker thought, as she dropped down to stand beside him.

But a blue sling supported his left arm and haunted eyes shone dully from a gaunt face, and anyone looking closely enough would note that the jacket hung a little too loosely from broad shoulders, and his movements were slow and guarded.

"You sure you're able to do this on your own," Sophie asked from her seat in Lucille.

Eliot nodded.

"Yeah. I gotta do this, Soph. I promised."

"And Eliots always keep their promises," Parker added, giving Eliot's good arm a squeeze.

Hardison and Nate wandered around Lucille to join them, the young hacker instinctively checking Eliot out, making sure the ex-soldier wasn't overdoing anything. Man, Eliot could be a _goddamn pain_ to watch out for.

"Here if you need us, bro," he said quietly.

Eliot checked his jacket pocket, making sure the dog tags were where he left them.

"Won't be long," he stated bluntly. "Just gotta tell her about her brother. Put everythin' right."

"You go do what you have to, Eliot. We'll be waiting. Take your time." Nate smiled at him then, and nodded. His family would be there when Eliot returned.

Eliot looked at the faces before him, all of them worried, solemn but determined. They had his back. He nodded his thanks, and then walked stiffly to the old metal gate leading to the little house where James Preston's sister waited.

She met him at the gate, ignoring the drizzle, a small woman with steady, intelligent grey eyes and grey-brown hair cut short in a mass of curls. She looked up at Eliot as he waited politely for her invitation to enter. His momma had brought him up to be a gentleman.

"You must be Mister Spencer," Ann Preston said, her voice soft with a faint Missouri lilt. "I was told you and your friends found my brother."

Eliot nodded, the light drizzle making his shoulders damp and his healing wounds ache.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, "an' please … it's Eliot. Mister Spencer's my pa," he added, his own Oklahoma accent adding softness to his words. He fumbled in his jacket pocket. _Better get this over with_ , he thought.

Bringing out the dog tags, he reached out over the low gate and Ann Preston held out her hand as Eliot dropped the tags into her palm.

"Brought these for you. I thought your brother would be okay with that." His voice was gruff with emotion held back by sheer force of will.

The little woman stared at the tags for long, long moments, and Eliot, unsure what to do, turned to look at his team, only to find they had retreated to Lucille, giving him space to do what he needed to do.

He turned back to find those sharp, steady grey eyes studying him, and a gentle smile playing around Ann Preston's mouth. Her eyes shone with tears.

"Son," she said, her voice shaky but warm, "you look about ready to fall down. C'mon in and have some tea. I have some chocolate oatmeal cookies just out of the oven." She clutched the dog tags tightly in both hands. "And let me tell you about my brother James."

And in that moment, Eliot Spencer knew there was nothing he would like more.

"Ma'am … I reckon that would be just fine," he said.

Opening the gate, he followed Ann Preston into her little house to warmth and welcome and a wealth of memories.

* * *

The drive home to Portland was subdued. Nobody said much, although they were very happy with the bag of cookies Ann Preston had given to Eliot. The hitter had eased himself onto the sofa bed, pulled his hair out of its black band, loosened his tie and worked himself onto his good side, and promptly fallen asleep.

Nate swapped seats with Parker, the thief settling herself next to Hardison as he drove Lucille through the late afternoon traffic.

Sophie looked up from watching Eliot and studied her husband as he settled into one of the leather seats opposite her. He leaned forward and rested a hand on hers where it lay cradling the child inside her.

"How're you two doing," he whispered.

Sophie's elegant eyebrows raised in exasperation.

"Oh, we're just fine, if you ignore the high blood pressure, swollen ankles, and a child that seems to find doing back-flips and punching my bladder the highlight of its day. Dear _God,_ I'll be glad to get this baby out of me," she sighed with obvious feeling.

"Bump's channelling Parker and Eliot, no doubt," Nate grinned wryly.

Sophie's expression softened.

"Yes … well … after worrying about _this_ fool of a man," she gestured at the sleeping Eliot, "looking after a baby is going to be a bloody doddle." Sophie frowned, still concerned. "I hope now he'll let it go, Nate. He needs to get himself back on track … take care of himself. And I swear if _any_ of them ever decide to go for a little walk in the mountains again or have anything to do with bears, teddy or otherwise, I will personally … _personally_ … slap the back of their idiot heads _so hard_ that their teeny-tiny brains will be knocked out of their ears!"

Nate smirked. Sophie's exasperated tone seemed to be the only one she could work with lately, especially as she was getting very little sleep.

"So …" he said innocently. " _Desdemona_ … not such a bad name …"

Sophie's expression of horror was priceless.

" _YES!"_ came Parker's hissed yell of triumph from the passenger seat. " _Des-de-MON-aaaa!_ "

* * *

Eliot Spencer sat quietly in the subdued light of his office that same evening, and worked hard to slow his breathing and relax tense and aching muscles. His shoulder was especially sore, and it had been a struggle to change into jeans and a warm hoodie so that he could try to relax.

A photograph lay on the desk before him. It was of a young man with dirty blond hair and a 'whitewall' haircut, dressed in army fatigues and grinning loopily into the camera. James Preston, a lifetime ago before the pain and nightmare and PTSD had taken his life and turned it into loneliness and tragedy.

Eliot thought about James and his sister for a long time. He thought about the loss both had endured, and the missing years, and he finally came to a decision of his own.

Awkwardly fishing his wallet out of his jeans pocket, he managed to rifle through it until he found a crumpled and well-worn piece of paper with a number on it. Lifting his telephone, he punched in the number, leaned forward and waited as the dial tone rang and rang and –

" _Hello?_ "

Eliot smiled.

"Hey, sis," he said. "It's me. Your pain-in-the-ass little brother Eliot. How are ya?"

THE END

* * *

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this little piece of nonsense. Look out for the next story in the series, 'Military Precision.'


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